17
by Petrichorous
Summary: Sarah has had two years to forget about her past, but it's come back to haunt her in the form of a new teacher named Mr. Jones.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Jim Henson and the Disney Corporation own the rights to this. We do not.

Note: Really hope you guys have as much fun reading this as we did writing it.

Chapter 1: Puzzle With a Piece Missing

_I stretch and shift,_

_These parts won't fit,_

_I can chop and change all I like,_

_Rearranging this won't make it right ..._

I've always hated high school.

The hallways smell like sweat and perfume, and the gossiping cliques spread their sneers like wild fire. Lectures drag on until your lids droop. Football jocks, high on their pride, parade the school like it's their domain, and they pump their fists because they think everyone else cares. Then there's the designer shoes, bags and jeans that pollute your already crowded vision. I roll my eyes, but I know I'm just jealous. Those girls are so pretty, and I'm just…me.

I hate it. I hate it all.

Which may explain why I press my face into the desk. I don't feel like bestowing myself to the shallow hell of high school—not my blemished skin, not my bruised eyes, and not my scowl. _Definitely_ not my scowl; it's the most unpleasant of all, that crumpled line. It further drowns my lifeless complexion and, so far, has scared off any curious gazes. I've decided that's a good thing; socializing is the last activity I feel tempted to do. In fact, if I had a list of things that I _did_ want to do, then I wouldn't include it. That's a guarantee.

So I'll hide. On the first day of my junior year, I'll fade into the composite surface of my desk, and hardly an eye will bat. In one easy step, I'll slip into the chaos of nervous babbling and insecure hair flicking. Nobody will notice. Nobody will see, and nobody will care. Just like that, I'll be invisible.

"Williams, is that you?"

Well, _almost _invisible.

There's no need to peek. I already know Ceylon's looming over my slumped form, like the human version of the Eiffel Tower. He's tall. Like, _really_ tall.

I'm trying to decide whether I'm pleased or dismayed to hear my best friend's voice; I thought my plan was to _not_ socialize. Yet, either way, I feel Ceylon's hand nudge my shoulder. He's strong, thanks to all his years of football. The force nearly sends me tumbling off my chair, and I have to grip the desk's edges for support. With a frustrated sigh, I lift my head and meet his gaze. Here's another Ceylon-based fact: he's impatient as hell.

I hadn't seen him much over the summer because he was usually sipping Champaign in some foreign city; the Bridge family's intense obsession, other than football, is to travel. So throughout those smoldering days of summer heat, it was continuous that their driveway was vacant and their windows were black. His family was hardly ever home. And once they finally did come back, their eyes, especially Ceylon's, twinkled with enlightenment, as if the realms of Europe or Africa or wherever gifted them with a whole new philosophical outlook on life. But I'm not jealous. I feel like I should be, yet I'm not. Traveling isn't my thing. I prefer to stay home.

Through the classroom's glaring light, I squint up at Ceylon. His skin has dramatically darkened, which doesn't shock me. His hair, a fair shade of blonde, has bleached slightly from the sun's rays, and the wavy strands hang across his forehead in shiny wisps. Green and humorous, Ceylon's eyes glimmer down at me, like he's been anticipating this moment or he's still high off the adventures of Cuba. He looks older, too. Taking in account the faint stubble, I wonder distractedly if our summer hiatus was actually ten solid years. His goofy grin widens.

"And the beast awakens."

I snort. "Whatever."

"Did you miss me?" He watches as I lurch from the chair and swing my bag over my shoulder. My head bursts from the settle movement, and I wince at the pounding outcome. The bell chimed two minutes ago. I just didn't feel like moving. Or showing up.

"With my whole heart," I mumble.

Ceylon's hand slaps his built chest as he frowns. "Your sarcasm stings, Williams." He then props an eyebrow. "And you look like a corpse. Rough night?"

Suddenly uncomfortable, my gaze falters; I don't like explaining what I don't like to think about. It bugs me how I haven't slept (which, in my books, includes my eyes remaining sewn shut for more than four consecutive hours) in the last month. Ever since the autumn breeze arrived and weaved a few colored leaves within its gust, the nightmares emerged. And they won't leave me alone. Although the sinister images are growing more frequent, I prefer to pretend they're nonexistent. I prefer to pretend, for as long as it's possible, that I don't toss in an anxious sweat every night, and that I don't wake in a near scream. Like I'm not disturbed by my memories' twisted recollections, and that the memories don't torment me in the night. That I'm as ordinary as any other teenager around me.

"Sure, something like that."

Suspicious, Ceylon studies me for a moment. Although my gaze is far from his, I know he's staring into the purple skin under my eyes. I can't blame him. The drooping bags are puffy and a little hard to ignore. Then, after a shrug of his broad shoulders, Ceylon rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Nah, 'corpse' doesn't cut it. More like 'ravenous, blood-thirsty zombie.'"

"Gee, Ceylon, thanks. And you expect me to _miss_ you."

The two of us weave through the desks. We've done this countless times that I hardly have to give it a second thought. Once we approach the door, he tosses me a cheesy smile. "With my whole heart."

The hallways are a beehive. Nobody bothers to move, but instead dawdles aimlessly as if they expect Moses to appear and part the bodies like they're a red sea. That'd be cool, but it doesn't happen. Sometimes it gets so irritatingly bad that I feel compelled to climb on top of everyone and wrestle through the turmoil that way. At least I wouldn't be late for class. But, in reality, Ceylon and I are obligated to shuffle and nudge our way through skin and bags, shoving our bodies forward and hoping we won't piss off too many idling peers. One time, Ceylon muttered "_move_" a little too loudly over the buzz and he got a real good sting. In other words, we were presented the nastiest scowl known to mankind. He barked in laughter, but I was thoroughly frightened; she was a bitchy bee.

As Ceylon and I squish through the crowd of noise and breath, we exchange our schedules. Before I examine his paper, I automatically assume our classes will be next to polar opposite, as they have been every year. Not _once_ have we shared a class. But, to prove my doubt wrong, I realize our last block is identical: English 11. Beaming in triumph, we high-five one and another.

But the listed teacher is marked as "Unknown." That can't be a good sign.

"It looks like we have the new teacher," Ceylon says in my ear, "Word is he's a genuine weirdo."

I frown and throw him a side glance. "Oh yeah? And how do you know?"

"I'm surprised you haven't heard, Williams. It's his first day and the nut job's already popular with a rep. Total crackpot."

"Actually?" A tall girl with fiery waves attempts to needle her body in between Ceylon and me. We instantly slam our shoulders together to block her path, a rehearsed technique. With one glance at Ceylon's height, her plan suddenly backfires and she's veering for a new opening.

It works every time and happens a lot; like the new teacher, Ceylon's also earned a rep: he's the definition of all things athletic and sporty. Nobody messes with him. So kids take one look at me and think they can easily push by, but then they notice Ceylon and their courage is demolished. Instantly, they bolt the opposite direction. In my head, he's sort of like my own personal bodyguard. Though I shouldn't tell him this, or he'll actually take on the role jokingly. Before I can stop him, he'll slip on a pair of shades, master a robotic strut and start ordering people to "stand back" and "give me space."

"And get this: apparently, he _talks_ to _toys_," Ceylon adds, his voice dripping in hilarity. "Like, stuffed animals. Gremlins and pixies. He pretends to boss them around. Kind of freaky, huh?"

"Uh…" I pause as we stumble through a gargantuan cluster of gothic kids before reaching our destination: room 113. "That's a combination of both weird _and_ freaky."

Ceylon chuckles. "Yeah, just a bit. But hey," he elbows my arm, "at least class won't be boring, right? With every waking hour of lame literature, this dude should keep things fun." He lets out another teasing chuckle and leans close to my ear. "If we get on his good side, maybe we can help name his furry friends."

I roll my eyes, but it's not like I don't agree with Ceylon. If he really does chat up synthetic creatures, then it'll be difficult to take this guy seriously. Even then though, it's only been two years since I trapped all my figurines, story books, dolls and puppets in plastic garbage bags, and then stuffed the collections away within the secluded depths of my closet. Mind you, I used to speak to them whenever life sucked for a bit. The strategy helped. So, although this man is a combination of weird and freaky, I'm not far from that embarrassing habit myself.

But, you know, I'll never retreat back to it. As I seized the toys up in my closet, I was fueled with a hope that I'll never have to lay eyes on them again. After all, approximately two years ago, I grew up. And once I did, I decided that those objects of my early childhood needed to be stashed away and forgotten. If a book or doll held any significance to that easy and immature period of my life, then it had to vanish. I mean, it's simple: if the child I once was two years ago vanished, then so must her toys.

We stroll through room 113's entrance. Ceylon wanders from my side and howls some spirited remarks to a crowd of jocks across the room. But I, on the other hand, retreat to my ideal sitting location: the center desk. It's my ideal location because it's not so close to the front that you can stare up at the teacher's nose hairs, but not so far back that you need binoculars to see the board. Nothing excitingly extreme or noticeable, just…there. Hidden in the center of everything, plain and intact. Ultimately, that's what I've become over this past year: safe.

I plop myself down in the chair and place my bag on the desk next to mine, guarding it for Ceylon's benefit. Just as I was about to close my eyes and steal an ounce of rest, a luxury I've been deprived of, someone smacks my desk's surface. Jolted, I nearly leap out of my chair.

"_Sarah_!" Jamie exclaims, her sing song voice doing nothing for my murderous headache. Her wide eyes are full of excitement. They're huge, and remind me of two oversized almonds.

She stands in a dramatic pose in front of my desk, her tiny fingers spread extensively across the surface. Jamie's hair, a slightly darker shade than her eyes, is a wild mass of spiraling curls. The tendrils just reach her petit shoulders, and they surround her face like a shrub. Because her skin's soft and pale, the curls' dark hue compliments her complexion. And judging from Jamie's smile, which stretches miraculously across her heart-shaped face, she's ecstatic to see me. Despite we watched Jesus Christ Superstar together last night. Again.

I smile up at my other best friend, who happens to despise anything to do with sports and, instead of the Eifel Tower, resembles an elf. An adorable, enthused elf. "Hey, Jamie!"

"Don't tell me," Ceylon's reappears by my side, "She saw your schedule and switched in."

At the sight of Ceylon, Jamie's radiating enthusiasm is replaced by a sheet of perplexity. "You look awfully a lot like a Hawaiian man." She cocks her head. "What happened to your skin?"

"It's called a _tan_, Jamie, a _tan_. Some people get them because it makes them look sexy."

She snorts, giving Ceylon a bit of a once over. "I'm sure that's what you were going for."

I chuckle and Ceylon sighs, already irritated. "Thanks."

"That wasn't a compliment," she clarifies, "but you're welcome."

Returning to her excitement, Jamie explains how she heard from a little gossip that room 113 held the new bizarre English teacher. She switched blocks in a heartbeat, no hesitations necessary.

"I also heard that he's hot," she adds with a grin. Jamie has a bit of a reputation for crushing on teachers. "My mind's telling me to obey the law, but my eyes are telling me to pursue." She leans in real close to my face, all jittery and theatrical. "I hope the lunatic's even funkier than what I've heard and even _cuter_ than I imagine."

Jamie's enticed by anything weird. And illegal.

I'm about to instruct the hopeful schoolgirl to destroy her anticipation. I mean, this man _talks_ to _toys_. In my point of view, he probably has a comb over. And a thick lisp. It may be a piece of cake to classify Jamie as an odd ball, but she deserves someone appealing and, well, sane. Even if she likes them otherwise. However, just as the advice was about to soar from my mouth, the back door swings open.

We all turn, awaiting the grand entrance of the infamous teacher. However, instead of a stranger, we're met with a familiar face. An _unpleasant _familiar face.

"Oh great," Jamie grumbles, sinking into the chair next to mine, "it's _Roz_."

Her real name is Mrs. Carter but Jamie had started calling her that on account that she resembles the big slug from Monsters Inc. In the eighth grade she'd said it once, but it had been overheard by another classmate who said it to another, then another. It was like a chain reaction. Obviously, the name stuck, though surprisingly enough Roz hasn't got wind of her nickname just yet. Probably due to the fact she's almost legally deaf. We have no actual proof of this, but if you'd spent the past three years in her English class then you'd come to that conclusion as well. That's easily agreeable.

She makes her way to the front in slow, sluggish strides, her lips pressed together so thinly that you wouldn't think that she had any. My disappointment takes me off guard; I was expecting—almost hoping—for the weirdo teacher. This will be the fourth year in a row I'm stuck in Roz's class.

Jamie elbows me in the side, "Look on the bright side, Sar. At least this way we get to play 'Get to Know You.'"

This does make me feel a little better. It's a tradition, even before we reached high school, that students in Carter's class get to play 'Get to Know You' on the first day. Mrs. Carter will ask you your name, what your hobbies are, and what you did over the summer. After it's noticed that she hardly pays attention to a word anyone says, everyone will start making up fake hobbies and will say something ridiculous about what they did over the summer. I've witnessed myself how creative some kids can get, and it's hysterical because she never bats an eye. The class will sneakily make fun of her calm reactions and she'll just stare blankly into abyss. Jamie, Ceylon, and I have been playing it since the eighth grade. We crack up every time.

"We will be playing a little game called 'Get to Know You,'" she drones, sitting cross-legged at the desk in front of the room. "We will go from front to back."

It starts, and the atmosphere lifts with an eager enthusiasm. Kids say the stupidest things, followed by a series of snickers, and Roz hardly twitches. Sometimes I wonder if she's covertly sleeping with her eyes open.

When it's Jamie's turn, she recites her words as if she were up for an Oscar. "My name is Jamie Madison. My hobbies include satanic worship and collecting horse pornography..." She winks at me just before adding "And over the summer I snuck cocaine from Cuba into the United States."

After that last bit she shoots Ceylon a challenging look. He returns it with a smirk.

"My name is Ceylon Bridge. My hobbies are kissing every mirror I walk past and cannibalism. Over the summer I finally got the sex change I've always dreamed of."

I struggle to trap my laughter inside. Ceylon blows Jamie a kiss and she rolls her eyes, but I can tell from the tug at her lips that she's tempted to giggle. Each year my best friends challenge each other with who can create the funniest biography, and although I find them equally funny, I sense there was a silent agreement that Ceylon is the champion of this round.

Despite my hatred for school, this game has always been fun. Once it begins, no one pays attention to who your friends are, or if you like parties, or what you eat. Any intimate details about your status are forgotten during the game, and I appreciate that more than anything.

When it's my turn Ceylon gives me a nudge.

"My name is Sarah Williams," I announce, brushing the hair out of my eyes. "My hobbies are nude sword fighting and underground cat fighting arenas. Over the summer I—"

A brief flash of movement near the front of the room catches my eye. I would've crammed my mouth shut sooner had I not already finished my sentence. The words escape my mouth.

"—participated in my first alien abduction."

The man leaning in the doorway flashes me a devilish grin and I feel the heat rush to my cheeks. He had appeared just as I was finishing up my introduction, so there's a slight possibility he's convinced I believe in aliens. Great. And stranger than that, his face is one I'm sure I've seen before.

"Ah, Mr. Jones," greets the Slug, looking somewhat happy. "I was just keeping your class warm for you. Are you all set to teach?"

Icy shivers prickle up my spine; his eyes haven't left mine. For some reason, I feel like he recognizes me as well.

"Yes, certainly," he replies, his gaze flowing toward the woman who glares vacantly at him. His voice is odd, somewhere between an Alabama drawl and an English accent. All eyes are glued to him as he glides in, each stride unnervingly graceful. The man exchanges a brief farewell with Roz before she exists. I guess the weird teacher is ours after all.

Jamie throws me a side glance and silently mouths, "Oh my God." And I can tell why. This man is tall and slim with reddish auburn hair. I feel silly for imagining a greasy comb over before, seeing in no way does it resemble so. His skin shockingly pale, especially in contrast to the golden sun-kissed bodies that litter the classroom. There's this proper, almost royal, manner to him, mainly in the sharp slope of his cheekbones and the curve of his nose; his face structure is stunningly dramatic. _Like a thin, white duke, _I mentally whisper, watching as he settles comfortably into his desk. _No, a _king_._

Why did I think that?

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he greets, getting up to write his name on the board. "My name is Mr. Jones. I've just moved here from Blackburn, Lancashire. My hobbies include reading classic literature and putting up with teenagers who think they are deities."

He returns to his desk, but instead of propping himself in the chair, he chooses the front edge of the desk. This way he can directly stare at the entire class, his penetrating gaze soaking in our dumbfounded expressions. I bet he enjoys that. He looks like the kind of man who loves intimidating children when he's bored.

Mr. Jones' long legs are clothed in black slacks and he wears a casual button down with the first few buttons undone. It's a refreshing sight since the majority of male teachers in this school boast stained gym shorts or furry vests.

"Over the summer I received my citizenship and purchased a '69 Chevy Impala in red," he continues. His eyes flicker over to mine before saying, "Fortunately, I was not abducted by aliens like poor Miss Williams was."

I exchange a confused look with Ceylon. How did he—

Just as though he understands my thoughts, he fluently adds, "I read the seating arrangement. I assure you I am not a mind reader."

The class laughs. It seems so far that the rumors about him are...well, just that: rumors. I don't see stuffed animals, nor any crazy babbling. As far as I know, he appears normal enough. I decide to laugh along with the others.

"There is no seating plan, Mr. Jones," Jamie states rather suddenly. The class grows mute and the teacher's attention suddenly focuses on her like a fixed target.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We chose our seating," she quips. Jamie isn't really the type to let errors go unnoticed. Or to have her questions go unanswered. "How did you know Sarah's last name?"

As the class stares, there's a stiff moment of uninterrupted silence. I'm intrigued by his knowledge of who I am, more so by the fact he would _lie _about how he knew.

The corner of his mouth quirks upward.

"She introduced herself earlier while Mrs. Carter was babysitting you all for me," he replies with a smooth elegance. His answer seems to satisfy just about everyone in the class. Everyone, of course, except Jamie, Ceylon, and I. Something feels off.

When he turns to the board to start writing some more, I peek at Jamie. Her eyes haven't left Mr. Jones at all, and there's a sort of curiosity on her face, the kind of look she gets when she's indulged in a mystery novel. I can tell Jamie's gears are churning.

It's funny, because when I shift my attention back to the front, I can swear I hear two words murmur from Mr. Jones' lips, each one collectively silken.

"Clever girl."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Changes

_Strange fascination, fascinating me,_

_Changes are taking the pace,_

_I'm going through…_

When we hangout in Ceylon's garage, I like to sink into the couch's scratchy material and listen to his dad's record collection. The mini fridge is usually overloaded with Coca Cola bottles, so we gulp the pop down until we can't feel our tongues.

The three of us spend a ton of time in Ceylon's garage; it's like our sanctuary, a reserve to evacuate to when life gets a little messy, and it provides us a sense of private seclusion. If one of us needs to abandon reality, even if it's just for a half hour, then Ceylon's garage is the vital destination. Plus, there's a pool table. If you think that's not cool, then you're lying.

There's no emergency today, though. The three of us are simply here to hangout, fill up on pop, and take a breather from our first day back in hell—I mean school. The first day's supposed to be the easiest, the day you show up to boast a tan or a new set of clothes. But the three of us can agree that it's actually _beyond_ the worst; acknowledging summer's deadline is a lot tougher than it sounds.

The rain patters gently against the roof, a definite sign of autumn. A light bulb dangles from the ceiling and casts the scene with a dim illumination. A variety of posters clutter the walls, ranging from classic shots of Marilyn Monroe to The Ramones' punkish album covers. I recognize the uncanny drone of the Blue Oyster Cult playing from the vinyl record player, the track a little fuzzy but awesome just the same. It's situated in the corner, the prize antique, and I watch as the disc churns. I love this place, I really do. If I could live anywhere of my choice, then it'd be this dusty, remote garage.

"Hey Ceylon," Jamie calls, "change the song."

Her small body's expertly bent over the pool table, her arms stretched as she aims the stick at a pool ball. Jamie's corkscrew curls are wrapped in a tousled bun, and she scrunches her lips before jabbing the ball into the table's farthest hole.

Jamie's a master at pool. I've offered to join her in a game, but she refused; Jamie likes to play alone, and I think it's for the benefit of claiming she's 'bound to win, one way or another.' Though I love her, she's such a smartass.

"Go drown yourself in Bowie somewhere else," Ceylon teases, "this is an anti-Bowie zone. Admire my poster for reassurance." Ceylon gestures towards the Ziggy Stardust poster on the wall beside him. There's a scribbled unibrow on his face, accompanied by a Hitler mustache. In the past, Jamie and I have ripped it down and tore the picture in half, but Ceylon taped it back together and hung it on the wall again. We gave up a long time ago; ther's no way we can win.

Jamie and I share a moment of sympathetic pity for the poster, pretending to sob. He sticks his tongue out in response, which Jamie does back. She looks ten times better doing it.

"How dare you use the lord's name in vain?" I retort from the saggy couch, "So disrespectful! It's a given he heard you, young man, and I pray for your values." I shake my pointer finger. Jamie cracks a smile and, in one precise movement, flings her hair elastic at Ceylon. Her smile deepens at the sound of it meeting his face, followed by his shrilled cry, "Ow!"

Jamie and I adore David Bowie. Everything she wears is secretly some knock-off of what he once swanked to the world, whether it's a shimmery golden blazer or plaid skinny jeans. And as tacky as that sounds, Jamie can pull it off; with her petit frame and witty nature, she looks good in anything. Even cheetah print heels (I've seen it myself).

I, on the contrary, steer clear from Bowie's striking fashion. I may admire the edgy appeal but a girl like me would fall flat in such an outfit. I'm just not cut off for the style—not my plain personality or my average body. If anything, I'd look like a clown. A clown who, despite its purpose, feels lost in its own vibrant getup.

So that's why, above everything else, I cherish Bowie's music. Though his fashion methods are extraordinary, they're no use to me. His music is what pulls me in, tunes out my world and, on occasion, acts as a savior. He knows how to untangle my thoughts, fill me in reassurance and remind me that not everyone can fit in. Not everyone can always be so _perfect_. When I feel alone, he's there. And I like that.

"So Mr. Jones, huh?" Ceylon's eyes flutter melodramatically as he places his hands on his hips and, with a horrible British accent, imitates Mr. Jones. "Greetings, fellow amateur deities. I am a convicted arsehole from Blackburn, Lancashire. I bought a shitty car and read English literature to stuffed creatures. I instruct you to like me. I have no friends."

I chuckle. Jamie, however, points her pool stick at him.

"Hey, stop that. Mr. Jones is a mystery to yet solve, Hannibal the Cannibal, and I plan to reveal his every secret, one layer at a time."

Jamie has somewhat of an obsession with uncovering the truth. I've never understood it myself, but the true story behind anyone or anything has always genuinely fascinated her. I can only imagine how tempting a character like Mr. Jones must be, with his probing stare and velvety voice, for her to untangle. From the sight of him, the man is a mystery.

"That's just the cocaine talking, Love. Satanic Worshippers shan't be trusted with secrets…" Ceylon's eyes roll up to the ceiling, "especially the ones as cocked-up as mine. You ain't got the _bullocks_."

Jamie raises an eyebrow. "'Cocked up'?" She's hardly impressed.

"It means 'screwed up,'" he explains, suddenly out of character.

"Go finish up that sex change," she jokes, "your sass could use the supplement of a set of breasts."

After a wail of laughter, Ceylon dives back into character. "As long as you let me in some of that horse pornography, your wish is my command…"

I watch as Ceylon snatches a pair of tennis balls from the shelf. I have a good feeling he's about to stuff them down his shirt, so I hold my pop bottle high in the air and announce, "I'm out of Pepsi. Who wants to grab me another bottle?"

Startled, my two best friends turn to meet my gaze. It's easy to assume that they've probably forgotten I've been sitting here; I'm usually the quiet one. Plus, Jamie and Ceylon can become so immersed within their mocking brawls that they usually overlook the audience who, like me, can't help but stare. They're quite the show.

The two flash hideously contorted expressions at one and another, which symbolizes their bantering's conclusion. Then, dropping the sport equipment to the ground, Ceylon strolls to the mini fridge, opens the door, and reaches an arm inside.

"What's so wonderfully satisfying about the truth, anyways?" I blurt.

Jamie turns back to the pool table. "Huh?"

"The mystery behind Mr. Jones. You said you wanted to reveal his secrets."

"Well duh, Sar. Have you even given the man a glance?" Jamie throws her arms in the air, exasperated. "He's like walking porn. I'm obligated to investigate."

Something inhumane sounds from my throat. "I think I just choked on my saliva."

"Good."

"But facts smacks, Jamie. You don't need to care about the truth so much. I mean, maybe you should back off a little when it comes to his…" I hesitate. "_Secrets_." I realize right then and there that, from somewhere deep inside of me, I'm speaking from personal experience. I've never preferred the truth. From my line of experience, the truth can only lead to problems. And it hurts. "The truth could scare you, you know. Or—or even hurt you."

I shift my gaze to the tennis balls, which still bounce against the rug. As I dazedly stare, I'm suddenly aware of the song that thrums in the background. I frown, because it's Bowie's voice that I hear.

"_Turn and face the strange, ch-ch-ch-changes…_"

I struggle to recall either Jamie or Ceylon fiddling with the record player to switch discs. Neither one of them touched it since The Blue Oyster Cult was playing. Confused, I turn my attention back to Ceylon.

My stomach twists and I'm mindful of my throat closing in; instead of meeting Ceylon's gaze, I find Mr. Jones' instead. I gawk at him as he saunters toward the couch.

In a fit of anxiety, my chest tightens. His long legs reach the couch within a second, and he props himself on the cushion next to mine. Once I feel his slender body press right up against my side, I freeze. Any words are far beyond my reach; I'm detained within a state of astonishment.

Scanning the garage, Ceylon and Jamie are nowhere to be seen. The tennis balls are motionless on the floor, and Jamie's pool stick rests against the table. We're alone, and that's the most daunting detail I've acknowledged yet. Where could they have gone? How could my best friends, of all people, ditch me in such a situation like this?

A pop bottle's woven in between his lanky fingers. Mr. Jones' legs are crossed, and my heart nearly falters when I feel it: his arm slips around my shoulders. Just like that, he nestles me close. If I wasn't frozen before, then I'm a solid statue by now.

Silently, he offers me the drink. When I merely stare up at his face, he compresses it into my palm. My fingers curl around the bottle robotically. The condensation drips down my wrist but I hardly give it a thought.

Mr. Jones' eyes have seized mine. I want to look away, but it's as though our gazes has been woven together in a strict knot, the strings invisible but just as strong. He's smirking confidently. And when I gulp, a weakness I was hoping to avoid, it expands.

Mr. Jones leans in real close. And, just to my horror, he brings his lips to my ear.

"Don't tell me truth hurts, little girl, 'cause it hurts like hell."

* * *

I wake with a scream.

My bedroom's darkness rushes to greet me, the obscurity hazy and blurred. My body's been whipped into a sitting position. My t-shirt's plastered to my sweaty skin, and I'm gasping like I've just sprinted a marathon. My heart thrashes. Each pulse is so frenzied that the organ might just burst into a million fragments—a devastation that wouldn't shock me. This has become my foreseen routine, after all, and it almost feels scheduled: a nightmare per slumber, not that I sleep much. Each projected memory, twisted in its own individuality, is as spiteful as the last.

However, this nightmare was different. Tonight, I hadn't returned to some smudgy memory I can still recall, and I hadn't watched as my recollection warped into a sense of torture. On a regular night, I'm forced to experience my previous memories, reminiscence of what I can still remember. Typically, the nightmares add a twisted falsehood to the projection, and I wake at the highest point of my fear—the point at which I'm convinced I'll drown in a sea of sheer terror.

So this nightmare was unlike the others because, well, I was in a comfortable version of reality. Heck, I was in _Ceylon's_ _garage_; it can't get much more realistically comfier than that. And my best friends—the two people who I trust with my whole heart—were there. Until they disappeared, that is, and I was stuck with Mr. Jones.

Which leads me to another odd realization; _Mr. Jones_ was there. Of all people, the potential lunatic showed up. The man has absolutely nothing to do with the rooting cause of my nightmares, regardless of his weird reputation, so why had he trickled into my nightmare? Why had he slithered his arm around my shoulders on the couch, given me a flirtatious smirk and whispered words in my ear—words that I never want to hear again? Words that only _he, _the most bloodcurdling nightmare of all, can speak?

A sharp sliver of angst stabs at my gut. I don't want to think about him. I _can't_ think about him. Not here, not now, not ever.

The Labyrinth can be forgotten within two years, can't it?

Because, at this rate, every night is a consistent reminder. Every night is a morphed version of my memories from the Labyrinth, and although I hadn't faced it last autumn but the one before, it's becoming impossible to disregard. And I hate it.

In contrast to the others, tonight's nightmare just didn't make sense. Nothing adds up, and it bugs me how unusually altered it was. Ceylon's warm garage shouldn't have been the setting, and Mr. Jones shouldn't have appeared, better yet spoken those words. Those words don't belong to him. They never have, and they never will.

I listen to the rain as it patters against my bedroom window. It sounds just like it had in the bizarre allusion. With a sigh, I place my head back on my pillow and, like every night since the season began to approach, wait patiently for my alarm clock to squawk. Mind you, that won't be until another five or so hours. I do this a lot.

I stare up at the ceiling and contemplate the truth behind Mr. Jones. He's a '_mystery to yet solve_,' as Jamie had put it. I wonder about the secrets behind his smirk and what he has to hide. What was thinking as he leaned against the classroom's door frame? He had observed me with a certain glimmer in his eyes, a glimmer that I can't help but question.

Five and a half hours later, my alarm clock impales my aimless thoughts. As I slump to the bathroom, I then settle on the conclusion that my nightmare was correct on one aspect: The truth isn't a wonderful thing, so Mr. Jones should remain a mystery. I really _don't_ want to know the truth behind those secrets. Or that smirk.

Or perhaps I'm just afraid to.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Within You

_How you turned my world, you precious thing,_

_You starve and near exhaust me,_

_Everything I've done, _

_I've done for you…_

_Wouldn't you ride that cowboy?_

I shake my head. This is the first official time Jamie has passed me a note in Mr. Jones' class but it will certainly not be the last. It's easy to assume that the "cowboy" she's referring to signifies our English teacher, since she has scribbled a caricature of a thin guy with a cowboy hat on and an overly exaggerated—

Oh, Jamie.

I raise an eyebrow at her, an endeavor to disguise my hilarity, and she responds with a saucy wink. Then, to finish off her point, she performs a fake lasso toss at the teacher. He's writing something about symbolism and is oblivious to Jamie's inappropriate antics. I recognize this fact with an outrageous level of thankfulness.

From my other side, Ceylon snatches the note from my hand and studies it, his eyebrows raising.

"Sign me up," He mutters, his eyes rolling to the ceiling.

As if on cue, the teacher's writing hand hinders and he's spinning promptly around. He must have heard Ceylon's dry comment because, as soon as the words left his mouth, the piece of chalk slips from his fingers and our faces suddenly capture his concentration.

"Is that a note?"

Mr. Jones' face lights up like a child's on Christmas morning. I mean, I've seen teachers react excitedly over catching note-passers before, but this man's response is almost well past ecstatic.

Ceylon's a statue as the teacher approaches us and outstretches his hand. I feel my cheeks go red with embarrassment; what if he reads it aloud to the class? What if he believes _I_ wrote it? A sliver of anxiety gnaws at my stomach.

But it seems I have no reason to worry about Mr. Jones' impression because, just as he retrieves it from Ceylon's palm, Jamie steals it from his angular fingers and stuffs it into her mouth. Just like it's a delicious piece of cake, Jamie crams the note into unreachable territory.

I've never seen anyone chew so fast in my life, although the speed is unnecessary; I seriously doubt someone as poised as Mr. Jones would risk cramming his fist into Jamie's mouth. In an effort to glimpse at a piece of paper, it's just not worth it.

I'm aware of a few giggles from our fellow classmates as she swallows the mess, the remains of her little joke dissolving within her stomach. Within a heartbeat, it's gone.

"Jamie," Mr. Jones warns, his expression not as much angry as it is disappointed, "what was written on that?"

She leans forward and props her chin up with her hands. "On what, Mr. Jones?" Her voice is coated with innocence and she pouts with an adorably puckered lip.

"The note." He's growing peeved.

"Note?" she repeats, mock confusion displayed across her face. "You mean my lunch? I wasn't aware that this class is a no eating zone."

"Oh? And what benefit would Meringue Head and Ms. Williams possibly obtain from handling your 'lunch?'"

Ceylon and I share a baffled look. Each of our expressions echoes the teacher's choice of words. _Meringue Head_? Seriously? I guess it has to do with the colour of his hair; it _is_ a perky blonde, and the wavy wisps do alarmingly resemble the fluffy varnish of a meringue pie.

Still, Ceylon doesn't find the nickname creative or amusing. In fact, he looks pissed. _Really_ pissed. The class laughs a little louder.

Though I know Jamie finds the nickname funny and will no doubt mention it later, she keeps a straight face under Mr. Jones' piercing gaze. His focus appears to magnify with each acknowledgement of her words, growing icier by the second.

"Sarah was supplying the mustard, but Ceylon put relish on my lunch and I _hate _relish." She offers him a mean glare.

"Sorry, James," is all Ceylon can muster. He still looks awfully shaken; nobody, with the exception of our little Jamie, has ever attacked Ceylon with a nickname like that. Not ever.

Our English teacher regards her with curiosity, Ceylon with disapproval, and myself... well, his eyes haven't, since today's class began, met mine. He hasn't even tossed me a peek. And if it weren't for his earlier mention of my name, it would seem that Mr. Jones is unaware of my involvement entirely. Which, in an odd sort of sense, feels like a shitty slap in the face. The way his eyes find my friends' on either side of my frame without so much as a settle gander my direction feels disappointing…A lot more disappointing than it _should_ feel.

Yet, maybe that's a good thing. Maybe I, unlike Ceylon and Jamie, won't get in trouble.

"The three of you," he said finally, his voice a cross between amusement and annoyance, "in class, after school. You just earned yourselves a detention."

* * *

"It's not heterochromia," Jamie announces from her desk. We've been awkwardly mute for the first five minutes of our punishment (the punishment _I_ theoretically don't deserve), and I've suspected Jamie would be the first to break it. She always is; peace and quiet aren't her forte.

"I beg your pardon?" replies Mr. Jones. His eyes flutter from the book placed on his desk. I watch as he pokes the spiffy pair of glasses down his nose and squints at Jamie. Not that I've given it much thought, but Mr. Jones looks good in glasses. Dangerous, like he's dressed to kill.

At the beginning of our detention he had dangled the novel in front of faces and claimed proudly we would be finishing it by the semester's end. "I'm not certain as to why I'm behaving so kindly to the three of you," he had exclaimed, as if he'd just let us in on some secret. Honestly, I could care less about the ridiculous sap story of _Wuthering Heights_.

"I thought you had heterochromia, Mr. Jones," she explains. "It's a genetic fault where one of your irises is a separate colour than the other. Yesterday, when you first came in, I thought that was your case. But no, when you approached my desk and gave me hell for eating my lunch, I got a good look. Your irises are actually the same color. It's just your pupils; one's overly dilated, probably permanently, and it makes the eye's colour look darker than the other. That's a little unsettling, Mr. Jones, if I do say so myself."

Ceylon swings his gaze to Jamie, presenting an expression of disbelief. He looked at her like she's gone crazy (a little late for that accusation). Yet, in contrast, Mr. Jones gifts her with a look of utter satisfaction, like the girl who devoured a slip of paper is suddenly a genius.

"I can't remember the scientific name," she continues, her eyebrows furrowing in concentration, "but David Bowie has the same thing you do. Tell me, does David Bowie have a secret twin?"

At that very moment, I realize Jamie had gotten us in trouble on purpose, hoping to score some private alone time with the mystery teacher. I guess she's better at unravelling secrets than I give her credit for, although I don't see how his weird pupils will answer any of her burning questions.

"Spill how it developed," she declares, reclining back in her chair.

But Mr. Jones doesn't look like he's about to answer any of her questions. Instead, he's grinning widely from ear to ear.

And, for the first time yet, I acknowledge his bizarre set of mismatched eyes. They're blue, as she mentioned, but the hue is glacial and pristine. The left eye is slightly darker than the other and the shade reminds me of a murky storm.

"My _my_, aren't you a brilliant little thing?" he purrs, slowly closing his book. His eyes are secured to Jamie's with a keen sharpness, like he was the predator and she was the prey. He looks eager to pounce.

"Please convey, my sneaky mastermind, what else have you deduced about me?"

It's a rare scene to witness, but a look of surprise flashes across Jamie's face, as though Mr. Jones has shoved her off the pedestal. But, of course, she's quick to recover; out of the two of them, she _must_ stand as the victor.

"Just one thing."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

Her eyes linger to the window, or rather what's on the other side of the glass. When I follow her gaze, I'm met with the site of the fiery red Impala Mr. Jones had previously purchased. "Your taste in cars is _so_ unimpressive."

His delight abandons him.

"I mean, everyone knows 1967 was the best year for the Impala," Jamie lectures. "'69 was such a poor follow-up, it's really when the Impala's started to go downhill. And in red too? _Why_? So you could draw more attention to your ugly taste in cars? It's a shame; you totally should've bought a '67 in black. It would have been way cooler. Like Batman. Now _he's_ got good taste."

Mr. Jones' eyes solidify into a hard sheet of stone, and suddenly I'm bombarded with a surge of déjà vu. Within my mind, a memory emerges of cold and calculative eyes. They glower down at me, tensed and overwrought, with a glimmer of pain. The outraged face, pinched in offence, mirrors Mr. Jones' with striking accuracy. My body stiffens.

But the images dissolve as quickly as they had come.

"You may go." he grumbles. His tone is tight. Mr. Jones is well aware that Jamie has won this round, and further time in detention would only lead to more insult. It isn't a motion of charity, but more for the state of his ego, which I'm sure just died a little. But I'm appreciative of the tiny act of mercy; I want to go home and sleep…if that's possible.

Jamie practically prances out of class like the path leading to the door is the yellow brick road. Although she technically failed to discover some juicy chunk of his past, she's revealed a weak spot and it's a good place to start. I wonder nervously how far she's planning to go with this, and if Mr. Jones will wind up ripping his hair out by the semester's end. Or maybe he'll just quit and drive the Impala into the sunset, defeated and depressed. Either one could work.

Ceylon follows suit and tries to hide his smirk. The attempt's weak, as I expected, and he ends up smiling broadly as he struts out the door. The guilt hit me like a sharp jab; we're bullying Mr. Jones.

So before I join my friends down the hall, I turn to my English teacher and offer him a hint of a smile. It was gentle, almost apologetic.

"Cool eyes," I compliment lightly, feeling as if he needed a pick-me-up from Jamie's burn. Everyone does.

His smirk is nothing like Ceylon's. It's slow and mischievous, and I can't help but fear for what's concealed underneath. I imagine it's deluged with dark, cryptic secrets, obscurities I'll never wish to expose; mysteries aren't my thing.

"Thank you, dear, I'm obliged to say the same of yours. Granting, on the contrary," Mr. Jones cocks his head, "I must admit that they can be _so _cruel."

The smile melts off my face.

The images rush back, faint and blurred, of the face looming over my own. The mismatched eyes accompanied by their bitter gaze. How insulted he had behaved once I refused him, and the murmur of his voice as he begged for my reconsideration. How my world had fallen down in those final moments, and how I've fought to disregard them. To disregard _him_.

_Your eyes can be so cruel…_

Something clicks.

Like the ignition of a flame, the epiphany attacks me in crushing waves, each current stronger and more excruciating than the last. Everything—Mr. Jones' behaviour, my latest nightmare and how he knew my name—it all makes sense. How he leaned against the door's frame with that certain look and how, as he scanned the students, his eyes loitered on mine for just a moment too long. Like a puzzle, the pieces finally fit; the secrets are out, and, instead of Jamie,_ I'm_ the one who exposed them.

I thought our gazes belonged to two strangers. I thought he was the teacher and I was the student. I thought he hardly noticed me. I thought everything was _fine_, and that I was just _tired_, and that he was just _weird_. But I have been so embarrassingly stupid, and he knew. He knew the entire time, from the moment he laid eyes on me, and I just stared back. Like an oblivious schoolgirl, I just _stared_.

My lack of recognition is sickening in every which way possible; he's here. The man who trapped me in hell and stole my little brother is here. The man who charmed me amongst masks and glittery gowns is here, the same man who, despite our circumstance, tried to tempt me into staying. He's _here_, standing before me, and I only see this _now_.

Mr. Jones is no stranger at all, but a monster I've known for quite some time. My books slip from my arms and collide with the floor. My eyes widen, my stomach twists, and my heart falters. It had sped into a feverish hammer before, with a final breath, quitting altogether.

"Jareth."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Chasing a Ghost

_Ever since I first laid eyes on you,_

_I don't know what, I don't know what to do…_

_I must be a fool to go out and chase you,_

_But that's just what, that's just what I'll do…_

I can't breathe.

I feel as though my chest has been pillaged and, as a result, the air inside stolen. Though my lips have parted, I'm gasping for unreachable breath. I hear the intake, loud and certain, yet nothing flows in—no relief, no amenity, no airto_ breathe_.

The classroom won't stop spinning. I wish it'd stop, noting the nausea that's devoured me in a full swig, but the walls persist to spiral in a dizzying rotation. They could be closing in, as well, trapping me in the core until they crush my body to dust. But I can't tell because, amongst the classroom's blurry scene, he is the only clear option. He is the only distinct, _focussed_ possibility, and I find myself staring. Captured in a numb trance, I simply stare.

Jareth leans his slender body against the desk's edge. His breathing may appear calm, but I can see his body's strained; under this level of discomfort, even Jareth has caved a little. His back's rigid and his arms are sternly woven. His expression's a blank sheet of paper and his eyes are guarded. He reveals no hint of emotion but, instead, gazes impassively. Jareth's closed up, _restrained_, and I suddenly feel so isolated and abandoned that my hand lifts to my mouth. This can't be happening. It just _can't_ be.

The horror washes over me like a fierce tide. He shouldn't be here. This combination of reality and fascination is so morbidly wrong that I can hardly ignore the temptation to scream.

Now that his true identity's discovered, I see nothing but Jareth. Any traces of Mr. Jones, his phoney disguise tactic, have been smeared into abyss, and only Jareth remains. Even with his fitted sweatshirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the collared shirt peeking from underneath, he's still Jareth. Even after accepting the slicked auburn hair with the few loose strands dangling over his forehead, he's _still_ Jareth. He's always been Jareth, just hidden behind a costume. And I fell for it—so incredibly hard, I fell each step of the way.

A silence hovers. Neither one of us speaks, and, as an outcome, there's a serenity that I've never stomached before. It's embarrassing and taut. I wish something, _anything_, would interrupt it, but I have nothing to say. Nothing to offer, nothing to heave into the midst of awkward placidity. I'm wordless, and, for the first time, he is too.

Nevertheless, our gazes are tied to one and another. I wish to break away, but, like in my nightmare, I feel there's a knot forcing our gazes together.

Then, with a lift of my chin, I speak.

"What do you want?"

His words are a detached drawl.

"To see you."

I snort. The nervous quiver's easy to detect. "You're insane."

"Haven't I always been?"

The silence arises once more and, amongst the treacherous degree of anxiety, I compare Jareth to one of those elegant statues people pay to see in museums. Considering his pastel complexion and frozen stance, he could pull it off. Not that I'd pay myself, I mean.

After a gulp, I cut straight to the point.

"Leave me alone."

"You must know that request's _far_ beyond my capabilities."

"It shouldn't be."

"But it is."

"_Don't_." Not knowing what else to do, I glare at him. However, he appears so disconnected that my glare's intensity wavers and I'm left just staring at him; I've never seen Jareth behave like this before; it's unnerving.

After a moment, he speaks.

"Stubborn as always, I see. I've come to gather little Ms. Sarah Williams hasn't changed." His eyebrow arches. "I'm oddly disappointed."

"_Excuse_ me? Of course I've changed. I've changed a lot, actually." I scoff, "Your creepy kingdom—the creatures and voodoo—were easy to overlook, like a glitch in my childhood." My arms fold across my chest. "A tiny, _forgettable_ glitch." Jareth doesn't need to know about my nightmares.

His jaw clenches. "Am I supposed to feel offended?"

"I couldn't care less."

"Oh? So now you're a liar." Jareth unthaws from his frozen position and, with his attention still locked to mine, peals from the desk's edge. He takes two steps forward. Each stride is careful, as though the floor may burst into lava if his feet exert enough pressure.

"It's a _given_ you'd wish to offend me," he says emotionlessly. "You've succeeded so well in the past."

I hadn't expect it, but his words leave me scrambling for my own. Is he pitying himself? Is he claiming I've hurt him? Is he labelling himself the prey, and me the predator? I'm angered by his accusation and I feel my fists clench by my sides. Then, without permission, I lash out.

"Don't you _dare_ act like you're the victim, like you've been wounded and need my pity. You're the villain, in case you've forgotten, and villains don't deserve sympathy. They don't deserve an _ounce_ of compassion, especially the ones who steal brothers, threaten fates and terrify children." My voice trembles as I lift my chin, meeting his gaze firmly. "You have no right to pin the guilt on me; you lost that privilege two years ago. You're monstrous and you're corrupted and you _dragged _me through _hell_. My pity is far from your possession, _Goblin King_."

A glimpse of pain flashes across Jareth's face. It appears for less than a heartbeat before fleeting, like a classified file he's obliged to mask.

His eyes drop from mine and loiter to the floor, an aimless attempt to avoid my own. Then, after a sigh, Jareth runs a hand through his slicked hair. I watch how his fingers entwine with the soft, red strands, and how the stray locks sway loosely from the rest.

His murmur's so gentle that it mine as well have been a whisper.

"There are two sides to every story, Sarah."

"_Two_ sides?" I throw my arms up in exasperation. "What other side is there? You left me to _fight_ for my own _brother_! That's the only side!"

His smirk appears. It dissolves the unreadable vacancy with a natural ease and I feel my arms prickle with an attack of shivers; it's _his_ smirk—that mischievous curl of his lips. It's finally returned.

"You're forgetting the side in which, after indulging within his labyrinth's luxuries, you broke a poor king's heart. Destroyed it, to be precise, and left him to dwell within love's cruel specialty: _rejection_."

His protective shield's gone. I don't know where it went, but it's gone. The distant fog in his eyes has dispersed and a look of humorous tease replaces it.

"I'm going to barf."

"The truth has always upset you."

"That's _not_ the truth," I snap. "Your stupid version, according to reality, doesn't even _exist_."

Jareth shakes his head. I notice his eyebrows have knitted together. "Won't you open your eyes, Sarah? In defiance of reality, you're only picking and choosing what you'd _like_ to see. If it suits you fine, then it's the truth." He dares another careful step towards me, which roughly results in a full three feet between us. "But haven't you considered there's more to reality than what you _think_ is possible? Than what you _think_ is there?"

When I refuse to respond, Jareth sighs and shakes his head once more. His eyes slip from mine and roll to the ceiling. He looks annoyed.

"You truly haven't changed. You are just as tenaciously _ignorant_ as when I first met you."

I silence engulfs us once more, and, this time, I don't feel like filling it in; his harsh acrimony was weirdly upsetting, not that I care about what he thinks; Jareth keeps looking at me in ways he shouldn't be looking and he keeps saying things he shouldn't be saying. Every rule of simple, common decency has been demolished, and the idea is sickening. _He's_ sickening.

Jareth's annoyance disappears as soon as it had emerged. In one fluent motion, the smirk resurfaces. Again.

"Stop it," I finally choke.

"What?"

"_That_," I nod towards his face, "just _stop_."

He blinks. "I'm afraid you've lost me."

Oh, how wonderful that'd be. "Stop _looking_ at me like that. And wipe that smirk off your face." My shoulders stiffen. "It's making me uncomfortable."

"Am I now?" His lips expand. "Well then, I better not stop."

"You're awful."

"I'm real."

"No, you're _awful_."

Jareth bursts into laughter. "Awfully real…It has as a nice ring to it." He chuckles, "I like that."

But I'm not about to laugh. I'm nowhere near that state of mind. Instead, I feel a twinge of dread as my hand grasp for the nearest desk's edge. The more my eyes rest upon his the more fear gnaws at my gut. I need to feel like my world isn't slipping from underneath me.

"You need to go—leave," I blurt. "If the school finds out about you, how you're not a qualified teacher—that you can't even _teach_—then you'll be done for. _I'll_ be done for. So for both of us, just leave."

"Oh Sarah," he cocks his head, "you have no reason to fear for my safety—"

"I wasn't," I bark, "I said for _both_ of us."

He studies my hand that's latched onto the desk and gives me a look of reassurance. But even I can read its mocking nature. "I've already dealt with the legal regulations. Nothing a little magic couldn't fix." He wiggles his fingers at me. "As far as the world is concerned, my name's David Jones. I was born in Blackburn, Lancashire, 1980, and I travelled to America in hopes to fulfill my teaching career. I have a severe passion for cars but, above all, a girl named Sarah Wi—"

"_Jareth_."

"You're right, I'll keep that between you and I." His eyes melt into mine. "It'll be our little secret."

The sensation of suffocation, as if my throat's closing in, returns. I notice the classroom's walls have begun to spin again, whirling in a cycle that forces me to fight for air. I press my entire body against the desk. Everything's blurry again with, of course, the exception of Jareth. The sight of him is crystal clear.

"I escaped the Labyrinth—I escaped _you_. So I should be free, shouldn't I? Why can't I be free?" I peer up at him and plea for a logical explanation. "Why can't I be _normal_?"

I don't wait for an answer. Alternatively, I tear from him and stumble through the rows of desks. I feel sick. My stomach flips as my hands fumble for each desk I pass, my fingers trembling as I reach for useless foundation. I can't look at him. I can't possibly stare into his eyes any longer.

I hear Jareth's remark from behind; he's following me.

"I've asked myself that exact question before, but then I realize how marvelous it is, well," He pauses, "to be me."

I scowl and fumble over a chair. "Shut up and answer the question."

"You're _you._ By all means you're not normal."

"_No_," I protest, weaving left then right between random desks. "Why _not_?"

When he doesn't respond, I whip around and challenge his gaze. He's only a few desks away from me, frozen mid-step.

"You've always been something else, Sarah," he speaks softly, "that's all I know. That's all I've ever known."

My breathing's rough and uneven. And once my eyes find his, my anxiety heightens to a brand new level.

"Dammit Jareth, this isn't fair!"

My statement seems to kindle the excitement within Jareth's eyes, enlivening his devilish spark to a ravenous flame.

"I've forgotten how exquisite those words sound from your lips." He ventures a step closer, his fingers lightly brushing the desks' surfaces. "Come on, Love, spoil me. Say it again, won't you?" he leans in. "Tell me how _unfair_ life's brutality is."

I stagger backwards.

"Get away from me."

"What's the matter? Scared of a little intimacy?"

"_Leave me alone_!" I shriek, my panic erupting.

"I must be a fool, aren't I? To go out and chase you like this?" His arms gesture to the classroom, to the lengths he's gone to be here. "I've never been good at following the rules."

Queasy, I flee down the aisle and stagger past more desks. But Jareth's faster and somehow appears before me, obstructing my path. His long arms have clamped onto the desks by his sides, creating a wall between me and my unplanned destination. He's poised in a catlike stance and, all too quickly, I realize this has become a game. A _chasing_ game.

"It haunts you, the Labyrinth, doesn't it?"

With a yelp, I dart to the right and force my body between a chair and a desk. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't be silly, Sarah," he snickers, "Your eyes can't fool me. They may be cruel, but they're _mortifying_ liars."

"I've blocked the memories out. Your labyrinth means _nothing_ to me."

Jareth appears on the opposite side of the row, stealthily maintaining speed.

"You remember," He objects eagerly, "you remember every morsel of a detail."

"I remember nothing!"

Just as I'm about to pivot the opposite direction, Jareth leaps over a chair and lands directly in front of me, the distance between us nonexistent. I would've screamed but shock swallowed the appeal.

"Oh _please_, you remember _everything_!" he keenly disagrees, "Don't you lie, Sarah. I'm finished with your vague dismissals; you behave so elusively astray that, I swear on it," His eyes search mine with a strange intensity. "You've become a ghost."

I step back as he steps forward. Jareth's strides are staunch and unwavering.

"You claim my labyrinth is a figment of the past, yet your eyes are empty. There is nothing _behind_ them. The Sarah that I once knew, her eyes were never empty. They were alive—a pair of jewels—and I could hardly control my enthralment." I fumble over a chair's leg and hastily regain my balance. He continues as if it never happened. "But you, Sarah, you're living in fear and your eyes bear it; they don't mean a word you say, do they? You've _taught_ yourself to _think_ you've forgotten. But I see through the barrier; the Labyrinth terrifies you. I know it does."

"Thi—this is ridiculous—"

"You're a ghost, and you can't even admit it yourself."

"That's not true!"

His steps lengthen, causing me to stagger backwards once more.

"Admit you can recall the Labyrinth. Admit you can recall every sequence of puzzles and twists. Admit, just this _once_, that I have the slimmest delicacy of power over you."

I stare up into his eyes and realize their flame has been extinguished. Instead, I see a glimmer of desperation within each mismatched pupil, begging for an answer. The one answer Jareth's always longed to hear. The one answer that I, Sarah Williams, will never give him.

I shake my head and allow my eyes to fill, verging to a pool of tears.

"I hate you," I choke, "I hate you _so_ much."

And, with that, I spin for the door.

Entwining through the desks' aisles, I reach my escape within a few heartbeats. However, once I thrash with the handle, I realize that it's locked. Or, considering there's no keyhole invisible, jammed. Spontaneously, the door has _jammed_; magic can do wonders.

I slam my back against the door and holler at him.

"Wield your_stupid _magic and open this_damn_—"

Just to my horror, Jareth has foraged the distance between the cluster of desks and the classroom's door. He looms over me like a marble sculpture, only inches from my body, and I nearly slam into his chest. Frightened, I gawk at our unnerving approximately.

"Not so fast," he purrs, presenting me an expression that covertly says '_gotcha.' _

He's standing so close that I can examine the curve of his pale collarbone and how angular his jawline is. It tightens as I squirm against the door, as though he was hoping for a different reaction entirely. Like he was hoping I'd want to stay. Not that I technically ever have.

And then, without a shard of hesitation, I rip my open palm across his face.

The piercing sound of skin against skin punctures my ears. My hand stings from the collision and I stagger backwards, the impact so robust that my balance reels. Most miraculously, though, is how I stagger through an opened door.

From out in the hallway, my eyes meet Jareth's. He crumples against the doorframe and stares at me in bafflement, his eyes wide and startled. His hair is dishevelled. His face is bent at an angle and the muscles probe from his neck. When my eyes discover Jareth's cheek, however, it's possible that I'm as astonished as he is; the skin is blotchy and inflamed, a dramatic pop of colour compared to his eerie features.

In such a way that he wished to speak, Jareth's lips part. But when only tranquillity follows, it's clear that I have thwarted the use of his voice; Jareth is speechless.

And with a last glimpse into his eyes, I escape down the hallway.

* * *

When my bedroom closet's shut, it's two white pillars with two silver handles. It's really tall, too, and stretches up to the ceiling. The paint's barren; there's not a chip nor smudge visible. And whenever I open it, sometimes I feel like those clean pillars will roll from their hinges, sway off course and crush me to the carpet.

That night, I wrench my closet open. I toss the hangers, dusty dresses and cardboard boxes over my shoulders and fling the junk in aimless directions. By the time I'm finished and my target's revealed, the closet's shredded into a million scraps; sheets of forgotten sketches scatter the carpet, along with knitted quilts and old pillow cases.

The garbage bags are squashed to the back of the storage, as they have been for a couple years. I haven't laid eyes on these bags, on the residue of my early childhood, since I buried them here—since I kept securing their knots over and over again, compulsively reassuring myself they weren't going anywhere; they were from a time that I need to forget. The toys, books and stuffed animals mean nothing to me, and they'd remain within oblivion's core. I'd forget. With the combination of time and repetition, I'd eventually forget.

"_You remember…you remember every morsel of a detail."_

He's wrong. He's so _incredibly_ wrong. He has to be. There's no way Jareth was speaking facts, that his words were true and I was in mere denial. I grew up, I know this, and growing up means to forget—to get _over_ it and _move_ on. I've known this ever since I defeated the Labyrinth, and I've done just that; don't these garbage bags mean anything? I have to believe that he's wrong. After the lengths I've suffered to disregard the Labyrinth, there's no way he could be right. There's just no way.

And with his lies ringing through my mind, I beat my feet into the garbage bags and force them further back into the closet. I kick and strike, watching the bags crumple under the impact and kicking even harder. I don't care if the house is asleep or if my foot's a bruise tomorrow; I hurl every ounce of my strength into the beating, until they're crushed up against the far wall, there's nothing left and my eyes droop under exhaustion's spell—until I lay in bed and slip into another foul, obscene nightmare for the night's duration.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Piledriver Waltz

_I heard the news that you're plannin'_

_To shoot me out of a cannon,_

_I heard the piledriver waltz,_

_It woke me up this morning…_

Haven has to be my favorite place in this entire town. It's a dark little cafe squished between a used book shop and a very decorative doll store, practically hidden from the world. And that's the best part, how it's _hidden_; I feel it's separated from everything else, an unseen realm of coffee, herbs and spices. When you walk in, the room's aroma of sweet lavender and incense engulfs you. Jamie loves it; Ceylon could never set a foot inside.

Which is quite a shame, really, because every morning and afternoon I have spent in here has made me happier on some degree, like it's cured the feelings of self-worthlessness that has emerged more often than I care to admit. I feel familiar with the unorganized oak tables and the burgundy curtains, haphazardly strewn amongst the black walls. I find solace with the teetering book shelves and the odd artwork that, most likely, the owner had discovered behind some sketchy building. But in here, where the floor creaks beneath your step and candles flicker, I like the painting of the woman with a cow's head. It looks less like it was drawn by a kindergartener on acid and more like it had come from the hands of someone who understood the world in ways I never will. That's admirable, you know.

However, even in Haven, I can't escape the thoughts of Jareth. His return has been bothering me without end, and it seems I have another reason to resent him. Not that I needed another.

The last two days have been like hell. Sitting in a classroom with my enemy acting as my instructor felt as if the world was punishing me for just wanting to lead a normal life. It's been two years since I've set foot in his world—two normal years with abnormal friends and average grades. And it's not as if I can talk to anyone about what's happening to me. Heck, Ceylon would never believe me and, even if Jamie did, I couldn't drag her into a mess as ugly as this. So without my friends' knowledge of this, I feel trapped within a glass box that's shrinking smaller and smaller by every breath I take. And soon enough, without the assistance of a savior, the walls will crush me. There's no way out.

But, even though I can't talk about Jareth's return (or first appearance, for that matter), I'm missing my usual partner in crime. Almost always, Jamie sits across the booth from me with one of those weird grassy shakes and a zombie book clutched in her hand. It's always just the two of us in here, and, even though we usually read and ignore each other, it's our favorite activity of all.

Yet I'm on my own today with a mug of earl grey and a battered copy of Wuthering Heights. Jareth had angrily shoved it my way this morning, his chin far too high for the commitment of eye contact; it seems I'm not the only one with the anger issues.

For the past couple days, I've been purposefully the last in class and first out the door; another moment alone with him would be a full-fledged session of torture. But my efforts were not needed, seeing as how the idea of talking to me was also not on "Mr. Jones'" to-do list. I mean, _apparently_, the two of us have done an awesome job at pissing each other off.

For instance, I've caught him glowering at me several times the day after I slapped him. The scowl was deep enough to age him. And, as for the day after that, his feelings hardly changed; if anything, his frustration intensified overnight because the looks I received were brief and sharper. Whenever he had to hand me work, it always seemed to be aggressively shoved and sometimes it'd even "accidently" fly off my desk. I'd have to get up and pick it up myself while the class watched quietly. But, hey, it's not like that particularly bugged me; I did so with a smile, one he certainly noticed every time. His awaiting resignation excited me.

The book's okay so far, except for the fact that Heathcliff is kind of a dick. Jamie has told me not to bother reading it because it's so terrible, but I've already made a deal with Karen this year to get an A in at least one of my courses. If it means reading some selfish love story, then so be it.

"Mind if I sit?"

I look up from the novel to see Jareth, a mug tucked in his hand and a newspaper in the other. Haven's candlelight casts a dim illumination onto his skin, and it replaces the pasty colour with a warm, golden shade. And, just to my shock, I'm not greeted with the usual glare of death I've been finding in class. Alternatively, I gawk at his stupid smirk. He looks down at me as if nothing had crossly transpired between us, and this is somewhat aggravating. I like it when we _both_ want to rip each other's throats out.

I don't speak as he sits without invitation, sliding comfortably into Jamie's usual spot.

"Could you please leave me alone?"

"Now that's not very nice," he chastised, bringing the steaming drink to his lips.

"I said please."

Jareth laughs as if I were joking. I definitely wasn't. "Now, now, Sarah," he chuckles, the calm smugness returning to his eyes, "I just dropped in for a cup of coffee and I saw you all by your lonesome self. I didn't want to be rude. Besides, don't you want to talk?"

I open my mouth to tell him to go to hell when I realize, just to my dismay, I _do_ want to talk. I really, _really_ want to talk; I have so many unanswered questions, like why he's really here and why now. Why, after two long years, has he decided to stroll back into my life? _Why_?

I lean in a little closer, which seems to take him by surprise. His eyebrows lift.

"Okay," I say, his look of astonishment unthawing into one of pleasure. "Let's talk."

He waves his hand and I feel something warm coat me like a blanket. I assume that he's forming some sort of disguise for the both of us so we can talk more privately. Curious, I quickly scan the room to see if any of the other customers are peeking our direction, but, as expected, they're far too deep within their own conversations to notice the two of us. It's not like there's that many costumers, anyways.

I'm about to speak when Jareth lifts his hand. "I want to play a game," he declares, clearing the newspaper and mug away from the table's centre. "But I'm going to need your permission."

"Your games are never much fun," I mumble, taking slow sips of tea. "And when have you ever needed my permission, Jareth? It seems these days you just do whatever you please." Like bombarding into my life, for example.

Just because I agree to talk to him does not mean I'm willing to play nice. In response, he just sighs as though I'm too much for him to handle, like he's not the burden in our relationship. I pretend to ignore him and take another unnecessary sip of my tea.

But while I do, I watch him press two slim fingers to the centre of his forehead. Jareth draws out what looks to be a long wisp of smoke. It twist and twirls within the shady atmosphere, like a writhing ghost. I stare in bewilderment, the mug frozen in my hand; it's been two years since I'd witnessed magic, so staring in awe comes naturally. The wisp floats between us and, right before he presses his fingers to my head, he pauses and silently asks for my permission.

I must've nodded because a second wisp emerges and tangles itself with his, the magic fusing into a cloudy white sphere before my eyes. I struggle for words.

"What—"

"Your thoughts and my thoughts," he explains, "carry what our truths are. If the mist turns yellow, then you are bending the truth. If it turns blue, then you are giving false information. And, if red, then you mean the opposite of what you say."

I give him a look of amazement. I've forgotten how incredible his abilities are, and I find myself reminded that only a genius can construct what he has shown me. But it's important to keep in mind that his magic hasn't always been wielded for good purposes. I'm suddenly aware of the taste of peaches in my mouth. I feel required to gage.

"Okay." It's hard to keep the stammer out of my voice. "I'll go first."

He grins at me, an ambiguous look that encourages a shiver. It's a little strange to see him this way, in a coffee shop with auburn hair and a lazy smile. It's the opposite of my memories—of the flamboyant Goblin King—with his grey tights and glitzy demeanor. In contrast to a glam outfit, I'm met with an oxford blazer and a casual white shirt. It's no wonder I hadn't recognized him at first. He looks, well, ordinary. _Almost_ ordinary, actually; the angular features and bright hair seem a little too supernatural for normalcy.

"Why are you back?" I ask. My tea's abandoned and all focus is fixed to him.

"To see you."

The wisp remains white, which I assume means that he's telling the truth. Still, I'm unsatisfied with his answer.

"You said that last time."

He lifts a shoulder. "It's an honest answer."

"I mean why _now_?" The question makes him shift uncomfortably in his seat. "Why wait two years to reappear, Goblin King?"

His silence tells me all I need to know.

"Oh," I say, eyes widening. He looks confused as I speak, obviously unaware that he's already told me the answer.

"'Oh' what, Love?"

"You waited so long," I announce, letting myself smile, "because the night I said "you have no power over me," was the night that I truly defeated you, wasn't it?"

His mouth crumples into a frown. "That's false!" he argues, "Well, indeed I was upset—broken-hearted, to be precise—but it wasn't enough to—"

The wisp shines a brilliant blue.

Gotcha.

He lets out a breath. "Oh please, it wasn't so much a defeat as it was a—"

"Royal ass-kicking?"

Considering he rolls his eyes and scowls, Jareth doesn't find this as funny as I do. To celebrate, I sit back in my seat and smile proudly; if I can best him once then I can most definitely do it again.

"Alright," I chirp, eyeing the winding orb. "Your turn."

Of course he doesn't take this nearly as seriously as I do. Instead, he seems to want to know the answers to only the stupidest of questions.

"What kind of panties are you wearing?" he smoothly asks, no reluctances required.

"Seriously?" I exclaim. "You have the opportunity to get any piece of information that you want and you ask me what _underwear_ I'm wearing?"

"I'm a man who needs to know these things for certain," he teases, leaning in closer. "Unless you want me to find out for myself. My undying curiosity must be satisfied."

"Curiosity killed the cat," I mutter, returning to my now lukewarm tea. I study the room suspiciously; there's an anxiety that someone's listening to this perverse game. But when my quick scan reveals not one eavesdropper, I ramble my response.

"Boy shorts. Cotton."

Flirtatiously, he bites his lower lip. Though not as sexy a truth as he probably preferred, the idea gives him a nice visual. I shiver. If I can just steal a few needed answers from him then I'm free to leave; until then, I can deal with his kinky questions.

"How did you come across your powers?"

"I was born into a royal family of warlocks. They were hereditary," he graciously replies. "What color are your boy shorts?"

"Green," I grumble. He then laughs at my discomfort and I listen to that odd laughter I've despised for so long. Before he can comment, I swiftly ask, "Is any harm going to come to my friends?"

The smile lurches off his face. A look of annoyance surfaces.

"Do you honestly think I'm going to hurt them?"

"Answer the question, Jareth."

"Of course not," he barks, but the orb gleams yellow. We both stare, and for some reason he shares my disbelief. "I'm not planning to if that's what you're asking..."

The orb then fades back to white and I cross my arms.

"Well fine," he adds, "I can't assure you nothing bad will happen to Meringue Head, but Jamie is very much safe."

I press myself against the table and prop my elbows on the surface, boring a scary glare into his eyes.

"If you touch one hair on either of their heads I will make you wish you never crawled out of the underground," I threaten. His eyes widen, from fear or disbelief I don't know. Even so, I keep talking. "I mean it, Jareth. If you so much as trip them then you're a dead man—_Warlock—_whatever."

He nods in agreement but soon that smirk returns. He wiggles in his seat before diving back into our game.

"Do you find me attractive, Sarah?"

I roll my eyes. "Oh dear God, get over yourself. You're average at best."

I'm horrified to notice that the orb dissolves into an intense red, the kind of colour Jamie would paint her lips. Astonished, I slam my fist onto the table.

"You're tricking it!" I shout. My fingers glide through the wisp in an attempt to smack it. "Stop manipulating the stupid thing, I'm being honest!"

He appears so incredibly happy that I'd rip my hair out. Or maybe his. He then chuckles, "Don't tell me truth hurts, little girl, 'cau—"

"_Shut up_."

"Magic doesn't lie."

I groan; how could my own thoughts betray me? I guess he _is_ handsome, and I did technically have a raging crush on him since I was nine. But I was _nine_, thank you very much, and that was because of the book. Those infatuated feelings arrived long before I had the misfortune of meeting the man face to face.

"Fine, whatever, you're attractive," I admit, refusing to look him in the eye. "It's my turn now. It'd be great if you stopped acting like a creep for a minute."

"As my Queen commands," he purrs, taking a sip from his mug.

I take a shaky breath and look around the room one last time. "What are you planning to do with Toby?"

His eyebrows raise, his mouth hidden by the rim of his mug. "Oh, _oh_, it seems the question of the evening is finally revealed."

I maintain a leveled gaze. "I'm serious. This can't all be about me, can it? You tried to take him two years ago and, FYI, that isn't something easily forgotten."

"Well," he begins, slamming his mug down on the table with a loud thud, "I didn't have anything in mind, really."

I think he's annoyed again. My eyes study the way his jaw clenches and how is fingers compress the handle, like he's perfectly content with crushing the thing. Is he _offended_?

"Maybe I could lock him up in the Oubliette!" he sharply exclaims, "Teach him how to swim in the Bog of Eternal Stench!"

I roll my eyes, but I feel myself tense up a little; his behaviour's wild tint makes me nervous. I think he notices this, though, because his body softens from across the table, as though he's forcing himself to relax.

"Are my rants a bit too much for you, Love?" he questions, suddenly playful, "Would you like me to calm my nerves, or do you enjoy it?"

I eye him. "Are you saying that this has nothing to do with Toby?"

"Why can't you believe that I'm here just for you, Sarah?" I avoid his searching eyes as he reclines back, his mouth curving into a sardonic smile. "Unless you think I _should_ do something. You have before, if I may add."

"I'm not—"

"Oh, but there's so much I can do!" he enthusiastically interrupts me, gesturing toward the wisp. "So many more spells I can cast, so many places I could place him. Since you think I'm such a bad man, what should I do to him first? What's going to _scare_ him the most, Love?"

I decide right then and there that I hate being talked to this way; in fact, I'm really beginning to lose my patience. Like last time, our conversation has steered into a direction I'd rather it not.

"Maybe I could change him into the little goblin I always wanted him to be. Would that make him cry? Would you not adore—?"

With the mug in hand, I splash my tea in his face.

His jaw drops as the warm liquid drips down onto his shirt, leaving faint streaks. My chest's heaving, and I don't need a mirror to know I my face is red with anger. "Don't," I growl. "Don't speak of my brother like that. Your repulsive abduction is _nothing_ to poke fun of."

I jerk myself out of the booth and pick up my book and bag. Just as I'm about to spin for Haven's exit, I bark, "I will make you regret it if you touch my friends, and I will _kill _you if you touch my brother. Is that clear?"

He nods silently.

"Good."

I leave before he can ask me another question.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Vultures

_I hear them whispering,_

_They're trying to ride it out…_

_Cause they've never gone this long,_

_Without a kill before..._

I spent the next day avoiding Jareth.

It's not that the aspect of his presence is alarming or sends me plummeting into an anxiety attack; I'm over the shock of it all. He's here and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. I get that. But, as for today, I don't want to deal with him. I don't want to deal with the crinkle chiselled in between his eyebrows or the way his hair interlaces with his fingers whenever he brushes through it. Or, even worse, how he sips his coffee—deliberately and calculated—with a glance of meticulous flirtation. Strictly speaking, anything that has to do with _Jareth_, I'm not dealing with. I just can't.

I've decided that there's not an ounce of energy within me that can handle his annoying theatricalities, and I'm convinced that yesterday's stint slaughtered the last of my vitality; joking about my connections to his damn labyrinth was the last straw. So, as for today, I'm too tired for Jareth. And that's that.

I need a timeout, like a pause button. If I could step out of life's ongoing circuit—take a break and remind myself how his company isn't _that_ big of a deal—then maybe things would feel easier. Maybe walking through the halls and knowing Jareth's breathing in the same building won't be as dreadful. Maybe accepting homework assignments from him, the Goblin King, won't be as freaky. Maybe, by some off chance, it'll be fine having him around. Could I be taking life too seriously?

Internally, my eyes roll and snort. Who am I kidding? Things are piloting downhill and I'm in the front row seat. With Jareth around, life's going to _suck_.

"Um, ew?"

Jamie pokes at her package of spaghetti and then migrates to her carton of soggy fries. She's grimacing and inspecting the food like it's a sample of unknown alien treasure.

"Are these supposed to look edible?" She lifts a fry up and then drops it, watching it splatter onto the others. The landing makes a gross slapping noise. "Because they don't."

I sigh. "It's cafeteria food, Jamie. Of course it's not edible."

Both Jamie and I grimace at our lunch trays. Our forks are well within reach, but neither one of us make an attempt to approach them. The spaghetti's a pile of noodles underneath a gooey blob of chunky sauce and the fries sort of look like rotting fingers; I really, _really_ should've packed a lunch today.

And you know, I would have. If I hadn't savored my limited supply of energy for crawling out of bed and then crawling some more to school, then I would've taken the time to prepare a decent lunch. But, as usual, last night's three hours of sleep disarms a lot of daily luxuries and, because of it, I plan to starve today; my sleep deprivation issue isn't getting any better. Like everything else in my life, it's nothing but a big fat _problem_.

"I can't eat this," she declares, shoving the food away, "it's just not worth it. I plan on living past forty, you know?"

"For that long?" I glare at the table and contemplate how shitty, on a scale of one to ten, my world is right now. It'd imagine it's somewhere between eleven and the largest, most infinite number logically possible.

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

I feel her studying me. When something's going on, Jamie usually knows. Nothing slides past her and this usually results in an interrogation enquiry; that's just how Jamie functions. In her mind, you either confess your issues or you don't have any at all. There's no in-between. But, this time, she gives me a speculating examination before dropping it altogether. Just like that, I'm off the hook. I'm free. I try to hide it but I'm a mixture of both confusion and gratitude.

Just then, we hear Ceylon's laughter chime from the other end of our table, followed by a chorus of squeaky, falsetto giggles. Jamie and I don't stiffen, frown or reveal any sign of discomfort to the noise; we're used to it. We've adapted to the sound ever since the eighth grade, as it's been our daily routine ever since. It just happens, and we just listen.

The opposite end of our table is packed. Kids huddle together in a tight and compacted circle. Judging from the bleached hair, flawless skin and huge, sparkly lips, it's mostly the cheerleading squad. But among them, of course, are their elected boyfriends: the muscular football jocks. They weave their arms around the girls' tiny waists and bask in their popularity, like they've unlocked the key to bliss and the cafeteria's their rightful palace. I think of them as vultures. Minus the miniature skirts and chiselled jawlines, the resemblance is striking.

Ordinarily, I'd pay zero attention to them. But it's the fact that Ceylon, our best friend, stands within the cluster's core that I have to notice; there's no way I can't steal a glance. He towers over the rest in an assertive position, his pride an expense of radiation. I watch as he adjusts his basketball jersey and contributes to whatever they're gossiping about, like they're worth his time and he could stand there all day. Even worse, he looks happy—_natural_—and it's weird. It's always been weird, but Jamie and I will never say anything. What kind of best friends would we be if we did?

Jamie grabs her fork and stabs at the carton of fries. Her forehead's creased.

"Losers," she grumbles.

I can tell she's looking for something to do, something to occupy herself and hide the fact that, deep down, Ceylon's laughter is bugging the shit out of her. She's always hated his friends, especially how they step out of their way to ignore us. Ceylon's clique literally locate themselves at the opposite end of the cafeteria table and, to accentuate their point, plant their backs to us. Then they'll flick their fried hair, whisper mysteriously, and pretend altogether that we're nonexistent, that they didn't just snag our best friend for the lunch period.

But the worse part, to top it off, is how Ceylon doesn't do anything about it. He just stands there and plasters on a smile, like we're suddenly his unnoticeable shadow and that's totally okay. He's someone else entirely when he joins their plastic montage: someone superior, more exceptional and worthy. And it hurts. Although I just sit here and pretend to eat fries, it really, really hurts.

"He's getting weirder and weirder, isn't he?"

I meet her gaze. "Ceylon?"

"No!" She laughs, tossing a slimy fry at me. I dodge it. "Mr. Jones. _Humungous _difference."

"How so?"

"One's hot," she simply says.

"And this one is…?" I need to hear her say it before I assume how crazy she is.

She looks me straight in the eye. "Well it's not meringue head, I can tell you that."

My voice drops an octave as I uncomfortably glance away. "Yeah, sure. Whatever." So the nickname's catching on.

Because I'm pretending Jareth's presence is meaningless today, I tried to neglect his gaze for the extent of his class. But it was a lot more difficult than I originally assumed. He's not the easiest line of target to ignore, and he made this plainly clear.

The funny thing is, I don't think he's mad about the tea incident yesterday. Unlike his reaction to my slap, it's like he's _fueled_ by it, in fact, like my frustration nourished his annoyingness; his eyes wouldn't stop loitering onto mine. For an hour and a half, Jareth behaved as if I was the only student in the room and we were participating in a one-on-one English lesson; he kept tossing smirks in my direction and, although I refused to look, I could tell they were fired at me. He examined my every movement with flawless precision and every time his eyes left the chalkboard, they'd migrate back to mine. If I shifted in my seat or took a quick stretch, he'd glance my way. If my pencil changed directions, I'd suddenly be the most fascinating subject within viewpoint. His concentration was so heated that I could feel the stare scald into my skin.

It quickly turned into a game, as usual. Every time his eyes rested on mine, it was a teasing plea for me to return his gaze, to show him a taste of acknowledgement. Of course, though, I hardly satisfied the request; there was no way I was about to surrender without a fight. What fun would that be? I'm mad at him, you know, and it has to stay this way.

Instead, I latched my eyes onto the ultimate secret weapon: my sheet of notes. Whenever I felt compelled to peek in his direction, I'd scribble _don't look up_ in as many feverish lines as I could manage. If I filled the page up, which I did twice, then I'd simply flip the paper over and continue. And if my pencil's lead snapped, which it wouldn't stop doing, then I'd sharpen it. It was that easy.

And, just to my fulfilment, my work paid off. I drove him insane.

"Who here has ever held a grudge?" Jareth had asked the class. In thick, capitalized letters, he had written a declaration on the chalkboard:

HOLDING GRUDGES IS NOT HEALTHY, KIND OR ATTRACTIVE.

A surge of hands flew high in the air, practically the entire class confessing. A few students even flailed their arms around a little, eager to share their story. Then there was me, situated in the centre of the arms, scribbling on my paper. My pulse was beginning to quicken.

"Has anyone _else_ held a grudge before?"

_Don't look up, don't look up, don't look up…_

I couple more hands lifted. And from the corner of my eye, I watched him dramatically sweep his head my direction.

"I expect honesty from every single one of you."

With the exception of myself, everyone's arms were in the air.

"Alright, allow me to rephrase myself." The patience in his voice was beginning deteriorate. After underlining the board's statement and writing over it with a different colour, he continued. "Who here is _currently_ participating in an unnecessary, needless and _superfluous _grudge?"

And with a proud lift of his chin, Jareth stuck his arm straight in the air.

Everyone stared at him. A moment passed and nearly everyone's arms returned to their sides, a development of uncertainty in their faces. Amidst the silence, He cleared his throat.

"Last chance."

I ripped a hole in my paper but this didn't faze my scribbling.

"Very well then," Jareth grumbled, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. "A lack of class participation does look _divine_ on one's report card."

All in all, it turns out that the more he probed, the more I ignored. And by the end of class, he was loudly commenting about how _absurd_ it is to ignore your own teacher. Yet, I hardly batted Jareth an eye. It felt great. _Karma's a bitch_, I had thought to myself.

That being said, victory wasn't entirely mine to boast. I did, due to pure interest and a moment weakness, peek up from my notes once. Through a curtain of my hair, I weighed the options without _really_ weighing them and glanced towards Jareth's desk. It had been during a quiet work period, and curiosity had taken its toll.

When my eyes found his, Jareth was hunched in his chair with his arms folded. The classroom's fluorescent lighting emphasised the top of his cheekbones and a soft splash of shadows were nestled underneath them. He was looking at me and, even worse, with a sort of spirited pout; he stuck his lower lip out and his eyebrows, which were knit together, had that stupid crinkle carved in between them. I wanted to smear the damn thing off his face.

But then Jareth puckered his lips together and pretended to offer me a kiss; out of nowhere, I wanted him dead.

Alarmed, I tore my eyes away and began to write feverishly onto my note paper. At this point, I was scribbling unidentifiable shapes and squiggles, not that the strategy helped. Gosh, I wish my teacher would stop flirting with me.

"You look like shit."

Jamie's words haul me back to the cafeteria table.

"What?"

She points her fork my direction.

"You heard me. Am I missing something? Are you alright?" She squints her eyes suspiciously. "Did you brush your hair this morning?"

Suddenly self-conscious, I yank my fingers through my long, dark hair and wince; the knots are so tight that not even a proper brush can do the job. I give up within seconds.

Jamie's right and I know it; I _do_ look like shit, and that definitely has something to do with the fact that I can't sleep. The puffy bags under my eyes have perfected a purple hue and my skin's getting blotchier and blotchier. I even found a gross pimple on my chin yesterday, which is not something that I'm used to. With the additional stress in my life, thanks to Jareth, my face is beginning to bear it. I look like one of those hormonal teenagers who need Proactive.

"Thanks," I drowsily sigh, "but I'm fine. Really, everything's…" I suffer a delay, "…Fine."

It's plain to see that Jamie doesn't buy it. I've always been a terrible liar so it's a wonder where I'm heading with this. But, instead of diving headfirst into a concentrated interrogation, Jamie beams.

"Great, auditions are tomorrow night!"

"Wait, what?"

"Sup, ladies."

Ceylon slides into the spot beside Jamie and sticks one of her fries into his mouth. She grins while he spits it into the nearest napkin, heaving in disgust.

"What auditions?" I ask, "Who's auditioning?"

Ceylon tosses her a side glance and chokes, "You didn't tell her, did you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Sweetie," Jamie cups my hands in her own, "all three of us are auditioning for the school musical."

I blink. "Um, since when?"

"Since I decided a month ago that I'd keep it from you and watch you freak out." She shrugs her tiny shoulders. "You do best under pressure."

"What the hell? I can't act _or_ sing! I don't even have anything prepared!" I turn to Ceylon for support. "Help me out of this, won't you? You hate theatre."

He frowns. "Since when do I hate theatre?"

"Since Beauty and the Beast in grade nine, when you chucked a basketball at the talking candle. Remember?"

"Oh my God," he chuckles, "that was _so_ funny."

My expression darkens. "Not. Helping."

When the two of them merely high-five one and another, I scowl, stand up, and gather the remains of our lunch. Then I stomp to the garbage can at the end of the table and dump the contents inside. Theatre is so _stupid_.

But I guess I'm not paying attention because, as I carelessly scrape the food off the tray, Vicky Summers is standing unreasonably close to the garbage's rim and I watch as droplets of the spaghetti sauce fling upwards. And, just to horror, they land on the most unfortunate location possible: her scrawny, nonexistent butt.

I feel myself stiffen. Isn't spaghetti sauce made of tomatoes, and don't tomatoes stain? Tomatoes _definitely_ stain. And to make manners worse, she must have felt the landing's impact, because she slowly rotates herself around and fixes her mascara-drenched eyes onto me. Her perfect Barbie Doll body freezes, and the blood drains from my face; she looks sort of pissed.

In my perspective, Vicky's the nastiest vulture of all the vultures. Not only is she the head of the cheerleading squad, but she also has a rep for sleeping with five members of the senior football team, at the _same_ time, while neither one of them knew. Though it took them a little while to connect the pieces, the school's population had it figured it out by day one (it was quite the show, I have to admit).

The two of us stare at one and another in silence. Then, before I can apologize, Vicky scoops a forkful of her own spaghetti sauce and splatters it onto my jeans.

I gasp and stumble backwards, stunned. Then she gives me a last intimidating glare before returning to her clique, who hadn't noticed a single thing. In fact, nobody had; the entire cafeteria's clueless, and this includes Jamie and Ceylon; Jamie's animated hand gestures suggest that the two of them are transfixed in an argument, far too occupied to regard me.

So I just stand there, aghast and overcome, and wait for someone to encounter me. The cold goo seeps into my jeans and meets my skin, which feels like the most disgusting sensation I've ever endured. But nobody sees me and I suddenly feel like the biggest idiot on the planet for anticipating such attention; I can't even stand my own ground. What makes me believe somebody else will?

I glance around the setting one last time for any curious spectators. Now that I feel tremendously alone, I'm praying nobody's noticed the sight of me: the awkward girl with a glob of spaghetti on her jeans. And just to be extra careful, I peer up at the cafeteria's surrounding balcony. This is _humiliating_.

The world must truly despise me because, above all people, the one bystander I see is the one man I've been struggling to avoid: Jareth. He leans against the glass railing and stares down at me. I expect a performance of some sort, like a cheeky wave or a puckered kiss, but his expression is weirdly emotionless. He just _stares_. And, because I don't know what else to do, I stare back. After a quiet moment, he peels himself from the railing and saunters away.

"Williams!"

I turn to see Ceylon waving me over impatiently. It appears Jamie's succumbed to a major laugh attack, which means their bantering's morphed into a joke fest. This happens every time. So I plaster on a smile, hide the stain with my palm, and join my best friends.

_Everything's fine_, I remind myself, _everything is just _fine.


	7. Chapter 7

Note: Thanks everyone for the wonderful comments and awesome reviews! It's really pushed us to write and edit, and we're having such a great time constructing Sarah (as well as our OCs).

P.S. Honoria Granger, we are actually very envious of the fact you met Bowie. Seriously, that's really cool!

Chapter 7: Heart's a Mess

_Pick apart the pieces of your heart,_

_Let me peer inside…_

_Let me in to where your thoughts have been,_

_Let me occupy your mind…_

_As you do mine…_

* * *

That afternoon, I listen to the hallway's avid thrum. I pick up bits and pieces of student's conversations as they stroll past my locker, fervent instructions of their weekend's schedule; it's Friday, after all, the time to unravel from the week's hassles and accept the two days of liberty. I feel myself smile; I'm Jareth-free. For the duration of the weekend, I'm disengaged from Jareth's claws.

As I stuff a couple textbooks into my bag, my lucky pencil slips from my grasp and clatters to the floor. I hear it roll a little, so I swing my bag over my shoulder and kneel down to retrieve it. However, once I scan the floor, I realize it's nowhere to be seen. It's disappeared.

Confused, I check my bag and perform a full-circle scan around me. It's still missing. Just like that, my lucky pencil's vanished into thin air.

I sigh and close my locker door. Whatever, it's just a pencil. These sort of things disappear then reappear all the time, anyways. But just as I latch the lock on, I'm encountered with a set of mismatched eyes.

"You dropped something."

Jareth leans against my neighbour's locker, a sly grin displayed across his face. He rests the side of his head against the locker and his hair's vivid against the gloomy metal. His fingers twirl my pencil—the one I dropped just moments before—in an intricate pattern.

"Yeah, and then you stole it." I snatch the pencil back and fiddle with my shoulder bag, my awkwardness blaring in every which way possible; I've never spoken to him in the hallways before. Out here, where we're exposed to judgements and unreasonable verdicts, I suddenly feel uncomfortably watched. Like there's a cluster of sneering girls on the other side of the hall, pointing at how their teacher, Mr. Jones, looks at me and the way I, his student, dodge his gaze.

Of course, however, there's no cluster of girls across the hallway. Hardly an eye bats our direction. I'm so paranoid.

"I had to obtain your attention somehow, Love. Bearing in mind you've been eluding me all day, I had no other option." His eyebrows raise. "Did I?"

"Here's a good one," I mutter, "you take the hint and back off."

And with that, I twirl away from him and strut down the hallway. As usual, though, Jareth acts on his feet and pursuits close behind.

"You're grumpy today," I hear him tease.

"Yeah, I get a little bitchy when my stalker steals my pencil."

"Well, on the contrary, your stalker's a gentlemen for serving you the favor." His strides are lengthier than mine and, consequently, I feel his warm breath in my ear. "A kiss in return, perhaps?"

"In your dreams," I scoff, pulling my face away and swerving from a crowd of theatre geeks. He trails my heels.

"I'd rather be in yours, actually. Not that I haven't already been."

I fight the urge to pound my fist into his mouth. Peaches should be illegal.

"Who is she?"

"Huh?"

"The synthetic doll—Icky? Or is it Vicky?"

I sigh. "Forget about her. I don't care, so you shouldn't either."

I can practically feel his eyes puncturing into my legs, as though he can scare off the pasta stain from the force of his sullen glare. Something tells me he didn't enjoy watching how it got there.

"Meringue Head." he moves on, "He connects with other crowds. Different crowds, I should say, from you and the satanic one."

"Jamie?"

"Yes, that."

I snort and nudge through a horde of towering twelfth graders. "He's sociable, Jareth, who cares?"

"You care," he counteracts, "And so does Jamie."

My voice hardens. "Drop it. My friends are none of your business."

"When it's clearly been bothering you for quite some time, Sarah, I'm afraid that it is my business. And you lost a perfectly ethical pair of jeans because of it. Have you thought of doing something about it? Sacrifice, perhaps?"

Fed up, I spin on my heel to face him. He screeches to a halt, nearly slamming into me in the process.

"Stop it."

"I'm joking." He adjusts his glasses.

"You can't do that."

"Do what?"

"Say things, follow me like this and suggest your grand master plan. My life is just fine without your help." I muster a foreboding glare. "Well, it _was_, anyways."

When he only blinks at me, I turn away once more and continue down the hallway. But, this time, he reaches my side and keeps up next to me. In front of _other_ people, he's basically breathing down my neck. Embarrassed, I pretend to look fascinated in the passing billboards and glass displays, like I'm not actually interacting with the weirdo teacher. Students and teachers aren't supposed to stand this close, better yet indulge in conversation, right?

"Still in denial, I see. You lie to yourself far too often, Love. Self-denial isn't healthy for the heart."

"Girls hate smartasses."

He leans in to my ear and whispers, "You're not like other girls."

I snort. "That's what _you_ think."

"In point of fact, actually, that's what I know; you conquered the mystical labyrinth, remember?"

Once more, I turn on him and smack a finger to my lips. "_Sshh_!"

"You're more uptight than I remember."

Overcome with nerves, I glance around us and scan for any curious glimpses. So far, nobody's noticed.

"Can you not?" I hiss, daring a step towards him and glowering up into his eyes. "No wonder everyone around here thinks you're a schizophrenic. You talk like the labyrinth's nothing to hide, like you're proud and you'd boast it if you could."

"Last time I boasted my kingdom, the girl of my dreams took her brother and left me. My scheme was an utter humiliation."

"_Schizophrenic_," I repeat, "They think you're a _schizophrenic_."

Suddenly all proud and macho, Jareth adjusts his shirt and wiggles his shoulders. "Yes, I'm well aware of my new nickname, Sarah. They call me the Schizophrenic. Inexplicably appealing, isn't it? The _Schizophrenic_." His beams in wondrous curiosity. "Tell me, what does it mean?"

I nearly slam my palm against my face. But rather than enduring the pain, I press the pointy end of my pencil into Jareth's chest, threatening to impel him. His eyes widen excitedly, not that enthusiasm was what I was going for.

"Look, Jareth. Our past is behind us now, got it? To this day, you are my English teacher, nothing more. And the English teacher is in no position to speak to his student about her personal life, better yet contribute anything more than homework assignments."

"But—"

"_No_." I apply more pressure to my weapon, watching his shirt wrinkle around the lead. "You may have showed up from some fantasy land and caused a minor interlude, but that's done. It's over, and I've moved on. You can watch my life from the sidelines, whatever, but you can't change anything. You can't alter my life anymore, understand? You're not allowed to contribute anything more than what an ordinary teacher should."

He chuckles. "Since when was I an ordinary teacher?"

"I'll stab you."

"Was the slap not enough? Or the tea attack, for that matter?"

I exert a little more pressure. "That depends."

Instead of wincing in pain or instructing me to cut it out, Jareth's face glows in a luminous thrill.

"Now this is the Sarah my memory evokes—extraordinarily dangerous. I've missed you."

"Hey," I demand, applying more pressure, "I mean it. No more change. You've done enough damage to my life."

"And _you've_ done enough damage to my heart. It's a mess, Love, a sheer disaster. You've mangled the pieces and deserted me to bleed, as though to neglect my affection is an unobtrusive habit."

I snort and roll my eyes. "Yeah, whatever—"

"Let me back in," he interrupts me. "Remind me how it felt to peer into your mind and investigate your thoughts. To unravel each thread, piece by piece, and explore the woven array of—of—" Jareth pauses, "_You_." He then cocks his head, gazing down at me with a sort of perplexed look. "Do you think of me often, Sarah? Does the image of me flicker through your mind, or does it stray?" He leans in, my pencil still digging into his chest. "Tell me, what will it take to occupy your mind?"

"If I'm thinking of you, then you're pissing me off and I'm planning how to cause you pain."

"Well then, that's a good start." His eyes could've sparkled, but I'm not sure. "Sounds dirty."

"_No_, it's _doesn't_."

He pretends to pout and playfully stomps his foot. "You're no fun anymore."

"I grew up—something you should consider for yourself, Mr. Jones."

His confusion swivels. "Call me Jareth."

"No," I sternly instruct, "It's Mr. Jones now."

He stares at me.

"You can't call me that. Not you."

I shrug, like I'm not threatening his life with a pencil. "You're the one who strode in the classroom and introduced yourself as Mr. Jones. To me, you're nothing but the English teacher." I watch the dismay flicker in his eyes. "Not my problem."

Just as I turn to continue down the hall, his hands fly up and fasten around the pencil, less than a centimeter from my own. His grip tightens. "Take that back."

"No."

"Ms. Williams," he warns, "As your teacher, I hold superiority."

"So?"

"I insist you call me Jareth."

I'm compelled to release my hold; the approximately of our fingers is unsettling. But I'll lose the pencil if I pull away, and heaven knows what Jareth would do with it.

"Shut up, Mr. Jones. We both know the Labyrinth's long gone. You're in reality, now."

He dives in a step closer. "What did I say about self-denial?"

I feel myself smile up at him, enjoying the chagrin exposed from his eyes. There's also a smidge of delight, but I pretend it's not there. "I can't remember, Mr. Jones."

"Well then, I advise you take notes next time. To you," he murmurs, "I'll always be Jar—"

"Um, are we interrupting something?"

We whip our faces to the sound of the intruding voice.

Jamie and Ceylon stand beside us, experiencing a front row seat of our disdainful mocking. They don't agree on much, those two, but both their faces have settled on one thing: frazzled confusion. Their eyes flicker from Jareth to me, then back to Jareth and me again. Ceylon's mouth droops open a little.

"Uh, hey!" I chirp, wrenching my hands free and faltering backwards. Panicked, I give my pencil a last farewell look before flinging it over my shoulders. Everyone watches as it collides with the far wall. I hear the impact's smack and I jolt; goodbye, my dearest lucky pencil.

I watch Ceylon slam his mouth shut and Jamie furtively examine the lead mark on Jareth's shirt. Neither one of them has anything to say, and the tension looms above us like a heavy raincloud. Jareth, on the other hand, appears as though he's about to erupt into a roaring spasm of laughter. He crosses his arms, like the gesture will somehow conceal his amusement. It doesn't work—fails miserably, actually.

"I was just, uh, you know—"

"Assaulting Mr. Jones?"

Jamie's suggestion is direct and a little terrifying. My cheeks sear into singed coals. I rack my brain for words, any excuse that'll remotely bring logic to the situation.

"Um—"

Jareth interferes. "Correct, Jamie, your observation is impeccable."

A muteness hustles to follow and it's excruciating; Jamie won't stop penetrating her chilling stare into my face, and I'm thinking I'll crumple to the floor if I don't escape.

Jareth clears his throat, still wrestling to hide his laughter. "Quite frankly, I was just leaving. Pardon me while I—um—" he suffers a pause. "—teach English."

Our teacher slithers between Jamie and Ceylon, now bestowing a full smirk, and escapes up the stairwell. We watch as he promptly jogs up to the third floor, his chuckles muffled but still detectable.

"School ended ten minutes ago," Jamie points out.

Ceylon adds, "His classroom's on the first floor."

They turn to me slowly. I pretend to look riveted in my pair of shabby sneakers.

Finally, Ceylon disrupts the silence.

"He's so fucking weird."

_Oh_, I exhale, _if only you knew._


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Here Comes the Anxiety

_Why'd you have to wear skirts and heels like that?_

_She's blinding anyway but now she's floodlighting up the match_

_It's twenty minutes 'till showtime but the backstage is the stage tonight_

_So now I just think I'll be honest_

"Weed?" snorts Jamie. "I think you're under estimating a bit there. That's like saying Jack the Ripper just liked to punch prostitutes. He is most _definitely_ on acid. Maybe some shrooms, too."

"I don't know," replies Ceylon, using his serious expression for the time being. "He seems like the kind of guy to have a secret tattoo that says "legalize it." You're opinion, Williams?"

I've been fortunate enough to not have been included in this debate, but it seems that my time on the sidelines has run out. "I think this conversation is stupid, and that Mr. Jones is obviously on crack."

Ceylon rolls his eyes, accompanied by his own mock laughter. "Idiots, the both of you."

"I change my stance," announces Jamie. She's found herself perched on my bed, acting as if it were the throne of some imposing monarch. She points the tip of her red pump at me, grinning from ear to ear. "Sarah's right, it's crack cocaine—_Duh_. No one's that skinny without a little snorting action."

I laughed, launching a pillow at her. "You don't snort crack, genius, you smoke it. The little crystals would hurt your nose too much."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mister White! He only snorts the pure stuff. Mr. Jones is very cautious of nose bleeds." She rolled onto her back, gazing at my ceiling as if she were regarding the stars. She breathed a heavy sigh, "His life is a little too Pulp Fiction for this school."

"Oh _Jesus_, pipe it down on the pop culture references." Ceylon says. He was currently sprawled over my carpet, flipping through some Broadway book Jamie had brought him. He was stuck on a page he particularly liked and I found myself glancing over his shoulder to see what had caught his attention.

"No one puts Jamie in a corner," she whispered.

I was glad my friends hadn't bombarded me with questions after the little incident involving Jareth and the pencil. However, it was odd they didn't ask what we were talking about. If I'd seen Jamie try to impale one of our instructors with a writing utensil, my questions would never end.

"I recognize this one," Ceylon says suddenly, lifting the book closer to his face. "You forced us watch this movie, didn't you, James? Back when you thought high school was going to be one of your lame, dorky musicals."

She rolled onto her stomach, eager that the conversation had steered into a subject she specialized in. "Little Shop of Horrors?" she guessed, trying to get a good look at the page. "Funny Girl?"

"Fame," he replied. Jamie let out a sharp breath and frowned.

"Ah, yes," she murmured, giving me a disgusted look. "The bane of my existence."

"You're just saying that because it gave you false hope about school," I teased. Ceylon chuckled at this, most likely remembering Jamie's reaction to our first day.

"Not once did anyone try to dance on the cafeteria table," she said, trying to produce fake tears. "Not once."

"Well, get over it," said Ceylon, "sports are where it's at. Theatre will always lose." He shows Jamie the page. "How does this one go again?"

"It's slow."

"I don't care, I just want to know how it goes."

Jamie looks a bit taken aback by how rude the comment is, and I have to admit that I'm not exactly sure where it had come from. Ceylon just awaits the answer, keeping on with the same calm look.

I exchange gazes with Jamie before she hums the tune.

"Thanks. I kinda like the sound of it."

"It's a major ballad, but it still is a little slow. If you want to do something faster that showcases more skill-"

"It's fine."

I try to catch her eye but she keeps them forward; a gaze which was is not returned by Ceylon. Instead, he focuses on the page which holds the lyrics and notes, almost as if he's practicing just by reading.

"So..." I begin, moving myself closer to the bed. "Figure out what song you're doing?"

A grin quickly replaces the shocked look she'd recently adorned, and it seems for now that the comments were forgotten. "That," she points, drawing a single finger to her lips, "is a surprise. You better prepare yourself to be blown away."

"Blown away by what?"

The question has come from the slim woman poised at my door way, otherwise known as Karen, my stepmother.

Jamie's eyes light up when she saw her, and I find myself annoyed by the sudden intrusion. She is the red headed woman my father had married and the mother of his youngest. She had been a ballerina before my father had met her, and she still has the figure and stance of someone who spent her life twirling. And being applauded with roses.

"Only the most spectacular musical performance of my life so far!" Jamie muses, thrilled by Karen's appearance. Though I find my stepmom to be the human embodiment of the word "smother," Jamie sees her as the mother she always wanted. Once I'd walked downstairs to see my best friend chatting it up in the kitchen with her. Apparently, she had arrived an hour prior.

"Is that so?" Karen replies, a grin forming on her face. She is a great appreciator of the theater, and has not been on a stage since before Toby was born. Suddenly her eyes are on me, and I'm met with the look of expectancy she often gives me. Almost as often I'm met with one of disappointment, and I know after I answer her next question that I will see it again. "What about you, Sarah? Are you planning on auditioning for your school's musical?"

So typical of my stepmother to know about this before we've even told her. "I doubt it," I respond flatly, watching as her mouth tugs into a frown. "You know me, my place is in the audience."

"Then maybe it'll be good for you to get on stage! I usually hear you singing in the shower; you have a lovely voice..."

I find myself blushing. Ceylon, however, is very intrigued by the idea of me having a concert in my bathroom. "On average, how much Phil Collins does she sing?" he asked, avoiding my sharp glare.

"Mostly that Ziggy Stardust, and a lot of Queen. Though, I prefer she sing more love songs. It's all about space or women with expensive-"

"Okay, thank you, Karen!" There is no way I'm going to let my friends know about my Killer Queen solo. I know that I won't be able to hear the end of it. "Hey, Jamie, shouldn't we be walking you home now?"

The look on Jamie's face suggests that we shouldn't, but being the good friend she is she decides to let me drag her away from my stepmother. "I guess," she mumbles, slinging her bag over her shoulder with a vicious huff. "Bye, Karen. Catch you on the flip side."

My stepmom gives her a small smile before letting us slide past. Ceylon drags his feet behind us, nose still buried in his musical book. There's still a part of me that's shocked at his intrigue with the school play. Whether or not Jamie is feeling it, I'm unsure, she just seems relieved to have someone to practice with. Even if that person is acting strangely.

Ceylon doesn't close the book until we are out on my porch and walking down into the street. He's managed to roll it up and stick it in his back pocket, and with a sigh he finally acknowledges the both of us. "So," he says to me, "what was Karen saying about your singing showers?"

"You know very well that conversation is over," I shoot back, poking my finger into his chest. "Don't concern yourself with my business."

"Well, I'm quite concerned," chimes Jamie. She's been walking ahead and has now stopped to let us catch up. "It seems you're hiding your talents. Talents that could very well get you a spot in the musical."

I don't respond; I've decided the best way to avoid this was to let them start a new topic on their own. However, I haven't counted on them reverting back to their favourite subject: Mister Jones.

"Y'know who he reminds me of?" begins Ceylon, throwing an arm around my shoulder. "David Bowie. He looks just like that old creep."

"You said 'sex god' wrong," says Jamie. "And he does sort of look like him. It's all in those fragile features..."

"Will you both shut up about Mr. Jones?" I hope that I come off more playful than intended with my comment. "This is an obsession! Mingled with absolute madness!"

"_Madness_!" shouts Ceylon, his voice echoing throughout the street. "Jamie just called Mister Jones a sex god; isn't that madness?"

"Only the best kind," cooes Jamie, twirling out into the street. She giggles enthusiastically, leading us into the town center. "And Sarah thinks it to. Oh, she sure does. I can tell."

I groan, leaning pathetically against Ceylon. "She's killing me. I'll be dead before we make it to her place." Ceylon lets out a deep laugh, dragging me along past each shop window. We have to cross the shopping centers to get to Jamie's house, and when Ceylon isn't with us we usually stop at Haven. Passing it without a visit is agony and I let out fake sob as he ushers me passed. "Can we go in for two minutes?"

"No way, Williams. That place uses incense for oxygen, and I'd like to keep my lungs working." He has me standing upright at this point, but his arm is still draped protectively over my shoulders.

I'm about to call him a wimp when I hear a giggle that makes me stop walking. _Oh no_, I think. _Please don't come up to us, please don't_—

"Ceylon!"

Shit.

The three of us turn to see Victoria and her gang of bobbleheads and jockies walking towards us. Ceylon grins idiotically, slowly sliding his arm back to its normal place at its side. Jamie, who's been twirling in front of us, is now standing at my right, arms crossed defiantly.

"What's up, Vick?" he asks coolly, his dorky demeanor slowly fading into one with more composure.

The clique has stopped right in front of us, poised in a crescent moon shape. Victoria has a cherry red sucker in her mouth, and pulls it out with a ferocious pop to talk. I can smell the sugar. "Oh nothing really. Just grabbing coffee. What about you?"

"Walking Jamie home," he says with a shrug. Jamie taps her red pump impatiently, making it obvious that this little meet and greet is a waste of her time. It totally is.

"Oh, nice," says Victoria, spinning the red candy in her fingers. She shifts her attention from him to Jamie. "Now those are some gorgeous shoes! You have to tell me where you got them."

It's much more usual for Victoria to be "nice" to Jamie, especially compared to the times she's nice to me—basically never. As much as Ceylon keeps his friend groups separate, he can't always have us at two different places at the same time. Sometimes we are unfortunate enough to talk with them, and this means Victoria trying to be sugary sweet to Jamie's face. This is all for Ceylon's sake, but when it comes to me she doesn't even try. I may as well not be here.

"Some store."

"They look a little hard to walk in," said Victoria, feigning a look of concern.

Jamie offers a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Well, I must have more experience with heels than you do, because I'm walking fine."

Victoria laughs, sticking the sucker back into her mouth. Behind her, a few members of her squad chatter to their boyfriends. When the word "musical" is mentioned I can see interest flood into Jamie's big, brown eyes. As much as she despises Ceylon's other group, her curiosity certainly wins her over.

"Are you planning to try out for the musical, Victoria?" asks Jamie, her impatient tapping gone for the moment. "I had no idea you were interested."

She shoots her squad a playful look before popping the sucker out of her mouth once more. "Leave it to my friends to give me away!" she said with a giggle. "It was going to be a surprise, but now that the cat's out of the bag I might as well talk about it. You'll definitely see me on the stage tomorrow."

"You'll see us there, too," interjects Ceylon, feeling left out of the conversation. Vicky hands him a sugary smile before giving the sucker a flirty lick. I don't know whether I want to laugh or vomit.

"Think you'll get a good part?" asks Jamie. To me, it looks like she's fishing for material to mock. I seriously doubt she thinks Victoria to be Sarah Brightman when it came to singing.

"As a matter of fact, yes," she declares. One of her girls performs silly-looking hip bump. "Mister Jones is casting. I mean, have you seen the way he looks at me? He seems like the type to play favourites."

Though her comment's nothing to laugh about, it's met by a chorus of giggles and throaty laughs, joined by Ceylon. Jamie looks as if she hit the gold mine of mockable material. "You don't say."

"I'm being serious!" She pops the red sucker back between her lips with a smile. "He told me he was casting, then invited me to try out with a scandalous wink. I've caught him staring before; he's very flirty." Some of the squad nods as if their agreement is proof. They're all so gross.

"No way!" Jamie says in her cheerleading falsetto. It's often the voice I hear when she's doing impressions of Vicky and her malicious gang of halfwits.

"I'm not lying," she says smoothly, rotating the candy between her lips. "He wants me, what can I say?"

Before I can stop myself I let out an obnoxious snort.

Suddenly, the group falls silent and every head turns to face me. At that moment I want the ground to open and swallow me whole, and it looks to me like Victoria wants the same thing.

"Something funny, Sarah?" she asks, her gaze falling from my head to my feet in one judging swoop. I'm not sure whether this has anything to do with rage fueled by the spaghetti incident, but I'm feeling much braver with the idea of being honest.

"Oh, I just find it odd how you think your life is the plotline from Lolita."

The jaws of her squad drop, although I'm uncertain if some of them understand my reference. Still, Victoria has gotten the message and she yanks her sucker away from her lips with a vicious pop. Again, the smell of cinammon attacks my nose.

"Very funny," she sneers, crossing her arms over her chest. "I suppose you think Mister Jones is all that is good in the world?"

_He doesn't even belong in this world, you moron. _

"I'm not a fan," I admit, surprisingly left unaffected by all this attention. "That being said, I have serious doubts he'd have the hots for some impressionable young girl in his English class. I don't think he'd stoop to that level." The irony of this statement makes me want to snort again, but I remain calm. Today, Victoria is royally pissing me off.

I can hear Jamie try to stifle a giggle and I can't help but smile. Victoria looks as if she's about to charge at me, nostrils flaring on her petite, upturned nose.

"We'll just have to see, then," she insists, trying to keep her cool in front of the audience. "Since I'm sure you'll have something to prove at the auditions."

I feel Jamie eye me expectantly, along with everyone else. It's like the whole street is holding its breath until I respond.

After a few moments of silence, I finally speak, flashing Victoria my most impressive smile.

"Oh yeah," I publicize. "You'll see me there."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Thank You for the Music

_I'm nothing special, in fact I'm a bit of a bore,_

_If I tell a joke, you've probably heard it before,_

_But I have a talent, a wonderful thing,_

_'Cause everyone listens when I start to sing…_

* * *

The first audition hasn't even begun and I'm freaking out. Like, really, _really_ freaking out.

There's this sunken sensation in my gut, like a hollow pit. With every string of nervous thought, it lodges itself in deeper. My fidgeting fingers don't help the circumstance, either. Each cuticle has been savagely mangled and I feel guilty about this for two reasons: the throbbing pain is going to _suck_ tomorrow and, because he's sitting beside me, it's shoving Ceylon's mojo off track.

"Quit the twitching, Williams," he whispers. "It's annoying. Concentrate on not moving; it helps."

I throw him a suspicious squint. "And how would _you_ know?"

"I do it before every game."

This catches my attention; fishing a weakness out of him is like striking gold. "Wait, I need clarification: Mr. High-and-Mighty gets nervous before his games?"

"I make it look easy, I know, but being perfect all the time is a lot tougher than it sounds. All you gotta do is pretend like the nerves aren't there and fake it till you make it. The results?" He shrugs. "I'm the best fucking basketball player on the planet."

I let out an exasperated puff of air.

"Your vanity isn't helping, hotshot."

"Yeah, well, maybe if you weren't massacring your fingers then my encouragement would have a nicer flow." His huge hand reaches for mine and clenches my sweaty palm. "Just stop fidgeting, Williams. Hotshot guarantees that it won't help."

"Whatever," I grumble. I wait for him to release his grip and, after five whole seconds, he finally does. I wonder, for only a moment, why he hesitated to let go.

I watch the streams of kids trickle through the theatre's entrance. They arrive in small bunches, like each contestant had to bring three or four friends in order to feel enough self-assurance; the larger your group is, the less doubts you tolerate. That makes sense, I guess, and I'd probably make an effort to follow the rule like everyone else has. But I only have two friends. So, effort or no effort, I'm a loner either way. Ta-da, nothing's new.

Ceylon and I sit in the farthest row of chairs from the stage, where the theatre's spotlights fail to reach and dust accumulates. It's quieter back here and the fretful energy isn't as heavy. I mean, I still feel like I'm suffocating, but it'd be terribly worse closer to the front. I need as much distance as I can muster from the vast, sprawling stage.

Entering unknown territory isn't one of my specialties. It's enormous, like a flat, black field. The image of standing on it, alone and exposed, sends the blood thrashing within my wrists. I think I'm going to be sick.

On top of this, not that the evening needed to become any scarier, Victoria has already fired a bullet at me—at the invisible wallflower who has never, _ever_ sung in front of anyone. The vulture must've spent the rest of Friday night and this afternoon spreading the word of our encounter last night because the whole theatre's familiar with my promise of having 'something to prove.' Faces keep peeking my direction and whispers, hushed but definitely loud enough, kick-start whenever I pass by. The eyes are impossible to miss as they examine me up and down gratingly, like I've already failed the test.

She's converted my spark of bravery into a cruel game of competition—of who, out of the two of us, can deliver a stronger audition. She's such a bitch.

Vick's using her popularity to her advantage. It's a smart move, I'll give her that, but I have nothing to fire back. I'm just _me_, with my colourless lips and screwed-up past. The only remotely stimulating thing about me is the Labyrinth, but that's also the worst part—not exactly the newest Louis Vuitton handbag that I can show off.

Ceylon and I sit uncomfortably in our seats. I had prayed that the gossiping wouldn't be heard from the farthest row, but I guess that it's unescapable because we can hear the chopped pieces of the gossip as clear as day.

"_There's no competition, everyone knows that. Sarah what's-her-face doesn't stand a chance._"

"_Can she even speak? I don't think I've heard her talk before. She's going to be so tone-deaf._"

Since we've arrived, Ceylon's muscles have tensed and he's been glancing in every direction self-consciously. Knowing him, he's not about to do anything about the gossiping. He's not about to confront the rumour's circulation or stand up and tell everyone to shut up. And I can't blame him; nobody can really _challenge_ something that Vick started—that originated from Vick's glossy lips; she's a royal member on the social latter, after all. So, because neither one of us know how to deal with it, we keep our mouths sewn shut and accept it for what it is.

"_It's her fault for challenging the prettiest girl in school; she dug her own grave._"

"_It's gonna be devastating, I don't think I can watch."_

"Yeah, well, it's gonna be devastating when I kick your sorry-ass across the lot."

Jamie heaves her ivy green pumps overtop the chair next to mine and plops her small body down. There's a mini mirror clutched in her palm as she finishes applying her delicate stroke of eyeliner. I spare a moment to digest the floral tights, leather skirt and lacy half-top. It's provocatively stunning—like the kind of girl other girls wish would pack her bags and move across the continent. I'm struck with a pang of jealousy; next to her, I'm a piece of scrap junk. I'm competing against _Victoria_, and I'm nothing but a piece of moldy garbage.

At the sight of my best friend, I clasp her armrest and peer pathetically into her eyes.

"Jamie, I'm really starting to feel like—"

She ignores my plea and leans forward at Ceylon.

"Has she threatened to hurt anybody, yet?"

"Mmm?" He gives her an absent glance. "Oh, not yet. But she's a wreck. Just like at her fingers for confirmation."

Defensive, I stuff my hands under my thighs. "Shut up, Ceylon, or I'll slap you."

"Never mind, she's threatened me."

"Splendid," Jamie reclines in her seat, "just splendid. A little adrenaline's needed for a knock-out audition."

"A _little_?" My voice rises into a hysterical shrill. "Jamie, I feel like I'm about to _barf_—"

Ceylon winces. "Oh Jesus, please don't."

"Well, excuse me, but it's not like I can just _control_—"

"No time for chitchat, kids." Jamie presents her flat palm at us and watches the stage attentively. "Mr. Jones has entered the premises."

Ceylon and I shift our attention to the front of the theatre and, sure and enough, Jareth has emerged from behind the curtain. He's dressed in full black attire and it bestows a polished, refined side of him that I've never seen. His red hair—not a strand out of position—glistens brilliantly in the spotlights' brilliance. I'm genuinely pissed off because he could pass as a Calvin Klein model.

Considering he's absorbed in adjusting his collar, Jareth doesn't notice the audience's bashful murmurs. It's as though conversations have come to an abrupt halt because of his oh-so-enchanting attendance. Over the course of a few days, Jareth's reputation as the weirdo druggy has faded into the handsome, mysterious prince. It frustrates me beyond relief; he's getting away with so much admiration that he _doesn' _. _Deserve_.

Ceylon's the first to mutter a comment.

"He's dressed like a…a…"

I blurt my thoughts just as he does; it turns out we're thinking the same thing.

"Douche bag."

Jamie throws her head back and scowls. "Ceylon, you're just jealous. And, Sarah, you're still learning how to voice physical provocation."

My eyes widen. "What did you just—?"

"He's a gentleman," she insists. "He's dressed like a _gentleman_."

I mumble a disagreement and, in the shadows of the farthest row, glower at Jareth. I hate him for being here. I hate him for prancing around my school like it's his damn kingdom, like he has a certificate that allows him to stand on that stage and fiddle with his collar. This is _my_ world, not his. Playing around with somebody else's belongings should be against the rules; not that he bothers to follow any. I should type up a rule book. First regulation? '_Return to the underground_.'

Just as Jareth disappears from behind the curtain, a blond, voluminous hairdo trots across the stage and we're met with the sight of Ms. Casey, who is the head of the theatre department. She's a slightly heavier woman and she's recognized by her cheesy, exaggerated smiles and polka-dot camisoles. Ever since grade eight I've sworn to steer clear of Ms. Casey's rambunctious laughter, but I guess today's a turning point—an awfully demoralizing milestone of my life. Hurray.

The audience watches her as she clears her throat and beams at the ocean of contestants. She pronounces each of her words with impressive emphasis, which leads to her mouth forming a whole bunch of legitimate shapes.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to McBride James' 33rd annual acting auditions!"

A deafening roar of cheers explodes from the seats and I see hands clap wildly in the air.

"I'm more than _thrilled_ to hear each and every one of you sing tonight; this school's limitless selection of talent has never failed to enthral me!" The explosion escalates again. It's beginning to remind of a murderous lion before it slaughters its prey. "Now, it's important to note that the name of this year's production will not be broadcasted until shortly after the audition process. And, as you've all been informed, the audition process comprises of tonight's _singing_ spectacle and Monday evening's _acting_ spectacle. Are there any questions?"

Ms. Casey is met with a third eruption of hollering and whistling. Then I watch her pump her chubby fist in the air and, for a moment, I'm mortified. What's so invigorating about lining up to be scrutinized on a stage? Theatre people are so weird.

"Before we can begin, I have one more announcement." she clasps her hands together and takes a deep, animated breath. I feel like she needs a glass of water. "As most of you have already learned, McBride James has been awarded with the supplement of a new staff member." At the sounds of this, bubbly murmurs arise. "He's more than a _magnificent_ man, my fellow ducklings, because he's also a _splendid_ teacher. Therefore, I am more than privileged to introduce the newest edition to our theatre company. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Mr. Jones, this year's official _musicaldirector_!"

My stomach twists into a painful convulsion. He's the _what_?

Jamie squeals and claps her hands together like a spoiled child on a playground. A part of me longs to whimper into her shoulder and the other wants to slap her across the face. This is not okay. This is not. Okay.

_What have a done to deserve this punishment? _

"You're a little pale, Williams." Ceylon inspects my complexion from my side. "Are you okay?"

"I want to barf." I look him directly in the eye and my words are as flat as a board. "I really, with all things considered, want to barf."

The judge _and_ musical director; he's getting more involved with the school than I have in three consecutive years. Nerd.

Before he can respond, our attention's snagged by the reappearance of Jareth. He struts onto the stage and, once he flashes the audience a charming smile, all the girls lose it. They shriek and pretend to faint in each other's laps. Though they know _nothing_ about him, they're like his deranged ocean of underage paparazzi.

If I had a tomato, I'd smash it into his face.

"It is among my highest of pleasures to stand before you all tonight." Jareth's lathered his voice in silk. Each of his syllables drones graciously after the last. "I thank you all for accepting me under such short notice, and one cannot depict the fervor I possess for our upcoming journey together."

Ceylon brings his lips to my ear.

"_Gay_."

After another chaotic applause, Ms. Casey and Jareth take their seats in their panel, which is situated directly in front of the stage. After Ms. Casey's corny speech of reassurance and don't-forget-to-have-fun bullshit, the auditions finally begin.

Although my nerves intensify after every performer that passes, Jareth's behaviour expresses that he couldn't care less. In fact, in spite of his warm introduction, it doesn't take a philosopher to recognise how bored the asshole is. With one glance at his shoes that are literally flopped on top the panel and his annoying habit of fiddling with his pen, Jareth doesn't give a damn. He hardly grants the stage a blink of interest and his notepad remains untouched. He just can't bring himself to care, and my hatred for him grows an inch or two thicker.

"Wow, you're very charming," he'd sarcastically coon, admiring his pen from several different angles. "That wasn't mediocre at all. I liked the part when you _sang_."

Thankfully, he's a tad bit more polite with Jamie. Whether this has something to do with Jamie's lovable charm or the fact that I'd kick his ass if he isn't, he offers her some decent eye-contact and turns off his eye-don't-give-a-shit mode.

However, she's pretty hard to ignore. Under stage lights she looks dazzling and her stance demands attention. She tries to shield her eyes from the blinding stage lights, acting in some shy manor as if this were the first time she'd set foot on stage. I can't help but roll my eyes as she taps her microphone, quirking her head to the side as if she weren't some triple threat.

"Ms. Madison, it is a pleasure to have you in our graces once more!" exclaims Ms. Casey. If there was one thing she loved as much as the theater, it had to be Jamie. She'd been in every play, musical, and dance recital that had taken place in this school since her first year. She'd even starred in a rock opera that Ms. Casey had directed in the public play centre. "What have you prepared for us today?"

As soon as the question was asked, Jamie's "little wallflower" act was dropped. She was now the poised, confident chick that she usually was. "This song is called 'Gethsemane' and it's from Jesus Christ Superstar." Ceylon and I exchange glances; we know that with Jamie it's go big or go home, and I should've guessed that she'd be singing the part of Jesus Christ. That being said, I'm proud of her, and it proves difficult to keep the smile off my face.

When the steady sound of the piano flows through the speakers, all traces of excitement are gone from Jamie's face. She is now her character; she is now the moment where these words are sung, trapped in the emotion of their meaning. Her eyes lift to where we sit, and I give her two thumbs up.

"_I only want to say,_

_If there is a way,_

_Take this cup away from me,_

_For I don't want to taste its poison._"

I can see people in the audience look at her with shock, as if such a strong voice could not leave the body of such a tiny girl. That being said, each belt made her seem larger, and each high note made her stance that much more solid. And boy could she belt. She was so in her element that the world was mute to her, unimportant to say the least. The two judges refuse to interrupt her, and I find myself smirking as Jareth begins to lean forward in his seat.

"_But if I die,_

_See the saga through and do the things you ask of me,_

_Let them hate me, hit me, hurt me,_

_Nail me to their tree._"

Finally, her eyes find mine, and I can't help but feel nervous at the thought that she can see all the way back here. The sudden wink she gives me slightly breaks her character, but at this point it doesn't matter, she knows she's killing it. Surprisingly, the judges still haven't stopped the music, giving her time to finish her song.

"_I will drink your cup of poison,_

_Nail me to your cross and break me,_

_Bleed me, beat me,_

_Kill me, take me now,_

_Before I change my mind._"

The moment she finishes she gives a polite bow, a final Jamie-esque touch to her performance. The audience gives their applause and I find myself elbowing Ceylon hard in the ribs.

Ms. Casey's words of praise are not exactly memorable but they paint Jamie's cheeks a rosy pink. The moment she is done raving about the performance, Mr. Jones cuts in, and I ready myself for another string of detached comments.

"That," he begins, tapping his pen against his notepad, "was very good."

Though not the most encouraging ensemble of words, it might as well have been a standing ovation coming from Jareth. The fact he didn't say it was terrible was commandment enough, and slightly a surprise. "I'm very impressed by you, Jamie," he says, leaning back in his seat. "I never would have thought you capable of such a song. It really suits you."

She grins at him and lets out a cute little laugh as a way of thank you. He says no more after this and Jamie walks off stage with great purpose.

Shortly after Jamie, it's Ceylon's turn to confront the spotlights. He's summoned into his inner athlete mode because I watch him crack his knuckles and roll his sturdy shoulders. There's a curl at the corner of his lips, a detail that usually arises when he's certain in winning a game. Ceylon doesn't get nervous like I do. He doesn't rip his fingers apart or convince himself that he'll barf; unlike mine, his attitude is assertive. His robust posture means that this audition's a piece of cake. For whatever reasons, I have faith in him that I can't spare for myself.

"You're going to do great," I hiss, "knock them dead!"

Ceylon gives me a smile before sticking his tongue out at Jamie. With the friendly addition of her middle finger, she has no problem returning it. It's decked out in gems.

The two of us watch him jog down the theatre's aisle. As he moves, I catch several pairs of eyes follow him. They stare at his bobbing shoulders and clean, shiny hair, and I'm not surprised when a few giggles echo from the seats. It's nothing fazing; for as long as I can remember, there's always been a dedicated fan base for Ceylon. The sporty physique is attractive, I guess, and who doesn't admire sculptured muscles? Ceylon has what most girls value in a guy—burly hands and a royal position in the basketball team. So it's anything but a shocker when their eyes linger—when they drool after him like a pack of starving puppies.

Once Ceylon's standing on the stage in a tall, vigorous stance, I hear Jareth let out a puff of surprise.

"Meringue Head!" He exclaims, "What a pleasant surprise! I hadn't been expecting you."

Ceylon shrugs his shoulders like it really doesn't matter. For someone who's never touched a stage before, he's playing it impressively cool. "Yeah, well, here I am."

"Yes, indeed." It could be my imagination, but Jareth's voice coarsens into a frosty, almost demeaning complaint. "Here you are."

Ceylon holds his gaze with Jareth's and, for a second, there's an edgy pause between the two of them.

"Uh…Yeah," is all Ceylon can assemble.

Before things can get a little too weird, Ms. Casey makes an effort to slice the tension.

"And what will you be singing for us tonight, Mr. Bridge?"

"'Somebody to Watch over Me,' written by Ella Fitzgerald. But I'll be singing Asher Book's version, from the movie _Fame_."

"Well then," she clasps her hands together. "That's a divine song. I wish you the best of luck, dear."

Jareth lifts the pen from his mouth and snobbishly points it at him.

"Begin."

The audience watches Ceylon readjust his footing and clear his throat. When the smooth piano sounds from the speakers, he lifts his head and sings.

"_There's a saying old, says that love is blind,_

_Still we're often told, "Seek and ye shall find…_

_So I'm going to seek a certain girl I've had in mind,_

_Looking everywhere, haven't found her yet_…"

I'm astonished at the sound of Ceylon's voice. I'm not exactly sure what my expectations were to begin with, but the weightless quality of his tone—how it approaches each word with a natural, tender composure—arises goose bumps on my arms. It's soothing and a little velvety, like a lullaby.

"_She's the big affair I cannot forget,_

_Only girl I ever think of with regret…_

_I'd like to add her initial to my monogram,_

_Tell me, where is the shepherdess for this lost lamb…?_"

As I listen, Ceylon's eyes wander to mine. It's a mystery how he spotted me within the meticulous ocean of faces, but his eyes discover mine and idle there as he continues to sing.

"_There's a somebody I'm longing to see,_

_I hope that she turns out to be,_

_Someone who'll watch over me…_"

Jareth's attempting to disturb the mood because the judge makes a show while he frumpily alters his posture. I can see him hunch over the panel and sigh profoundly, as though the audition's driving him insane.

"_I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood,_

_I know that I could always be_—"

"That's enough."

A flood of murmurs sounds from the audience. Jareth's arm has raised high in the air like a pencil, and his wiggling fingers suggest impatience. "I am finished listening," he declares. He's acting like a sour king at a dinner feast.

"Um…" Ceylon weaves his arms together. "Alright, then?"

Ms. Casey tosses Jareth a confused side glance. Then she smiles gingerly at the awaiting student. "Your vocals are beautiful, Mr. Bridge! I was pleasantly surprised; I've never known you possessed such a talent. Your voice is one that I'd love to hear again in the near fut—"

"It was bland. The inflection of your voice was tasteless and you played it safe." Jareth picks up his pen and aims it at Ceylon with a flick. "There's nothing stimulating in a riskless performance."

Ceylon blinks. "Excuse me? It was _bland_?"

"Must I repeat myself? Or can you listen the first time?"

Another flood of whispers resonates throughout the theatre.

"_Mr. Jones_," Ms. Casey shoots Jareth a warning look, "he is only a child. Use your feedback to encourage, not to discrimin—"

"I'm offering criticism, darling, nothing the boy can't handle." He turns back to Ceylon. "It was boring, Ceylon. You painstakingly bored me."

Ceylon takes a lengthy moment to glare at Mr. Jones, and something tells me the teacher's returning it with as much heat as Ceylon's.

A moment later, our best friend's flumping himself down next to us.

"You were on fire, Ceylon!" I offer him a huge smile.

Jamie punches his knee, the only thing she can reach from where she's sitting.

"Mine's beat the shit out of yours, but it was still really good!"

"Whatever," Ceylon mumbles. His arms are knotted tightly across his chest and his lips are squeezed together. He looks pissed, so both Jamie and I leave him alone.

After what seemed to be a never ending chorus of minimal talent we are finally graced with Victoria's arrival on stage. A brand new knot begins in my stomach, making me even more nervous than I already was. She looks almost stunning under the floodlights, but not in a way that could be described as cute. She dominates the stage like an ice queen, and practically puts Jamie's confidence to shame. You can see there isn't a single cloudy thought in that empty little head of hers, and the moment her song begins to play she swings her hips as if she were dancing for an auditorium of possible suitors.

"_The minute you walked in the joint,_

_I could tell you were a man of distinction…_

_A real big spender!_"

At my side, Jamie finds it almost impossible to control her laughter. I shoot her an odd look, seeing as how Vicky doesn't even have a single note out of place. If anything, she does the song justice, and her voice has almost morphed into a sultry purr. But, to Jamie, the song is a joke.

"Rookie mistake," she whispers to me through her giggles. "Big Spender? Seriously? That's an audition song for girls who know nothing of theatre."

Jamie's banter should have made me feel better, but not everyone was as tied up with the technicalities as she was. Victoria is now owning the stage, flipping her hair and belting to the best of her ability. To be fair, her high notes could use some work but her stage presence is intimidating.

"_Hey, Big Spender!_

_Spend a little time with me!_"

I may have imagined it, but I could've sworn those last lyrics were sung directly to Mr. Jones, as if he were the target of the song's intentions. Ceylon caught it too, because he was suddenly making disgusted faces at the stage. I could tell he enjoyed the performance, but seeing Jareth's red hair under the stage lights obviously procured some feelings of anger.

After the thunderous applause died down Ms. Casey went on and on about what a talent she was. After what seems to be endless praise, Mr. Jones pipes in only to say, "Quite good."

The murmuring and nosy glances become more exaggerated once Victoria sits back down in her seat. Only, just to be precise, her 'seat' serves more as a 'throne' because she's being presented grapes and people won't stop touching her hair. Everyone's high-fiving her manicured hands and gushing in her ear. They peek at me in the process, which isn't the greatest feeling in the whole wide world.

"_She's going to lose. It's so obvious."_

"_Vicky's going to be the lead and she's going to be the tree." _

I feel Jamie's hand press against my shoulder. She gazes into my eyes with a worried, apprehensive expression.

"Hey, how are you feeling? You don't look so hot."

"What do you _think_?" I bark. At this point, I'm finished. I feel like punching something. "Maybe if you hadn't _forced_ me to audition then the whole theatre wouldn't be awaiting for me to _disintegrate_ onstage!"

"You're pale as fuck."

I scowl. "That's _cool_, Jamie, I really needed to hear that. Your support is so god damn _fabulous_."

"That's just your adrenaline talking."

"_Screw the adrenaline_!"

Ceylon chuckles.

"She so pissed."

"_You both suck_!"

"Number sixty-seven, please!"

Oh no.

While Jamie and Ceylon both inhale a leisurely breath, I condense in my seat. I feel whatever blood's left in my face drain out like a gutter and my body's suddenly a chunk of ice. The pulse in my wrist is smashing viciously and, for half a second, the theatre fades into a blurry mess; everything's smudged and indistinct. The whispering has lifted into a legitimate buzz of exhilaration, and nearly every face has turned to survey me. The theatre knows that it's my turn. The theatre knows that it's Sarah William's time to blunder miserably. Including Jareth. Including _Vick_.

"I can't do this."

"Yes you can, old sport." I don't know why Ceylon's talking like Jay Gatsby.

"Look at me, you marvelous, gorgeous thing." Jamie clasps my two shoulders and penetrates her eyes into mine. "If you don't get up there and give it your best shot, then Vick automatically wins."

"_So_?"

"You don't want that."

Infuriated, I dig my fingers into her arms.

"I don't even _care_ anymore!"

"Yes. Yes you do." She pats my cheek twice and then reclines in her chair. "Now get up there and sing."

Ms. Casey repeats herself impatiently from the judging panel. "It's time for number _sixty seven_, please! Come on down!"

My guitar rests against our row's first chair, and I give it everything I've got to grasp its neck securely; my palms have begun to collect sweat and the last thing I want to do is watch it crash down the aisle. And Vick will win. And everything will suck.

I instruct one foot after the other as I march down the steps. Passing each row of probing spectators means there's a different clip of gossip to suffer—definitely _not_ what I need right now.

"_I don't even recognize her."_

"_Where are her boobs?"_

In what felt like a blink of an eye, I'm standing on the stage. Beams of searing light obstruct the faces like a glowing barrier, and I'm wondering why nobody's saying anything. The hushed murmurs are missing, along with the coughs or wailing baby. I keep waiting to hear something—_anything_—but it's as though the volume's muted. I can't even hear myself breathe, which is alarming because I probably should be.

The judging panel is crystal clear, however, despite nothing else is. Jareth gapes up at me in genuine perplexity, like it hadn't crossed his mind that I might audition. His jaw is slack and his pen is static between his fingers. It doesn't look like he's breathing, either.

"Good evening!" Ms. Casey chirps, "Now aren't you a pretty young girl. What's your name, sweetie?"

"Sarah Williams," Jareth replies numbly. "Her name is Sarah Williams."

If it wasn't quiet before, then it's remarkably noiseless by now.

"I…Um…Have my guitar," I squawk.

"_No shit_," someone retorts. It's rapidly followed with a "_shhh_!"

Jareth's still gaping at me but he draws together a smile.

"Yes, indeed you do. And it suites you lovely, your guitar."

I don't bother thanking him or acting like I'm flattered by his comment. Alternatively, I stare into the rays of light. A surge of disorientation has washed over me and the analysing faces—the gigantic _horde_ of analysing faces—is psyching me out.

"What will you be singing for us?"

Ms. Casey's question cranks up the volume.

"Uh, an original. Not that I wrote it, though. Somebody else did…Um, for me."

That was way too much information. I look like an ass.

"Sounds superb. When you're ready, then."

I order myself to breathe and ignore the piercing lights. In the following instance, the first chord immerses the theatre in a simple, consoling rhythm.

"_There's such a sad love_

_Deep in your eyes,_

_A kind of pale jewel,_

_Open and closed_

_Within your eyes..."_

I lift my chin and squint into the layers of illumination; I've only got one opportunity to do this right.

"_I'll place the sky_

_Within your eyes…"_

My voice is clear and delicate. I pronounce the words with a unique prominence and there's a gentle libretto carefully arranged for every few selected syllables. Karen likes to compare it to a fuzzy thread, which I've never really understood. I think she was trying to be artistic but it didn't really work.

"_There's such a fooled heart_

_Beatin' so fast,_

_In search of new dreams,_

_A love that will last_

_Within your heart..."_

For a reason that I cannot explain, my eyes draw back down to Jareth's.

"_I'll place the moon_

_Within your heart…"_

I knew it was a mistake to look at him because his eyes tell me that Jareth's melting—that I've triggered him into a state of deterioration. His misery is raw, like a plea to end the reminiscence, and I part of me wishes that I would, too. Because unfolding a memory like this is like exposing a wound—like demanding him to relive the night all over again. And watching his armour shred is nothing enjoyable, but oddly distressing.

He regains his composure, however, because I watch settle enthralment recover his expression and dissolve the vulnerability. As though he adapted to the recollection, Jareth's lips part and he silently sings the words with me—the man who, in the first place, originally wrote them.

"_As the pain sweeps through,_

_Makes no sense for you,_

_Every thrill is gone,_

_Wasn't too much fun at all…"_

The pen roles off the panel but he doesn't notice. Instead, he scoots his chair forward and compresses his chest against the panel's edge, gazing up at me wondrously.

"_But I'll be there for you…_

_As the world falls down."_

I assumed that the ball gowns would resurface, that the glimmering candles and ornaments of lace would form before my eyes. Although it's been two years of managing to obstruct the images out, in recalling a memory such as this, it'd be impossible to withstand the masquerade's magic. The memory is unforgettable, after all.

"_Falling…"_

A mask, embellished in glitter and jewels, bursts into laughter beside me_._

"_Falling down…"_

Tendrils of hair and glossy lips waltz around me in complicated patterns. And a man, dressed in a shimmery suite, develops amongst the glamour.

"_Falling in love."_

With the last strum, the image disbands and is replaced by the theatre. I'm hit with a flood of silence more barren and depleted than ever, and I'm partially convinced that I'm alone. I've been hallucinating this entire time because there's not one soul in the theatre with me.

But then Ms. Casey's slamming her palms together in a fit of joy.

"_Bravo_, Ms. Williams, _bravo_! That was outstanding, you blew me away! The guitar complemented your voice so well. Where have you been all this time? I _need_ to see you again!"

I have no idea how to respond to this. The spotlights have dimmed slightly, though, so I can now detect gatherings of faces in the audience. There's a majority of dumbfounded gawks, alongside my friends' wide grins.

"What's your input, Mr. Jones? What did you think of Ms. Williams' performance?"

Jareth doesn't seem to have heard the question because he says nothing. He doesn't even flinch at the sound of her voice or present any indications of conceding it. Instead, he gazes up at me in a deep, enraptured absorption. I'm lift mildly uncomfortable.

"Mr. Jones?" She repeats, glancing in his direction. She repeats herself once more. "Mr. _Jones_!"

"Pardon?"

He jolts in his seat and knocks over his glass of water. For the next five seconds, the room watches him fumble with the cup while the water submerges his notepad. It drips onto his lap, too, and he mutters unidentifiable complaints under his breath. His shoulders go taut as he stammers an apology to Ms. Casey. She laughs obnoxiously in return, struggling to conceal her annoyance.

Then his eyes rest on mine.

"That was…That was beautiful."

Gasps echo from the audience but he doesn't seem to care. My cheeks burn a little. "You brought me somewhere—to a place that I had thought was long gone." He holds on to a lengthy pause, as if his thoughts are far too scrambled to unwind and convey logically.

"That is all," he murmurs, and forces his attention away.

As I travel back up the aisle to my friends, I hear more clipped pieces of conversation.

"_Poor Vicky, I think she just lost_."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Back in Your Head

_Remember when I was_

_So strange and likeable?_

By the time the auditions wrap up, it's late into the evening. The parking lot's darker than I imagined it would be so my eyes need a moment to adjust. The lone street lamp gives the setting a somber feel and the breeze is chilly. I notice the sky, too—it's clear and starlit. Shivering in my coat, I stuff my hands in my pockets and nuzzle my chin into my scarf. It's ridiculously cold, so my cheeks burn from the irritation.

I listen to the silence. It's a simple serenity, a night so mute that I can recognise miniscule details like the rustling trees. Inhaling a measured breath, I, for just a moment, close my eyes; I miss this sense of peace, how I can just stand at the edge of the curb and, well, _breathe_.

As I do, I hear footsteps. They're initially faint and abroad but they grow more distinct with each stride. And, as I study my shadow that's stretched against the concrete, a second emerges. The body's tall and wiry, and it pauses just behind mine. Judging from its gaunt shape and dignified stance, I know exactly who it is.

Jareth and I stand there for a moment. A breeze hovers and I soak in as much peace as I possibly can; something tells me it's about to be annihilated.

"The chord arrangement is easy to play," I mutter.

"You remember."

His words aren't lively nor mocking. Instead, they sound awestruck. A little gentle, too.

"The _chordarrangement_," I firmly repeat, "is _easy_ to—"

"—every word, the rhythm and articulation…" he trails off. "…you remember."

My jaw stiffens. "I said the _chord arrang_—"

"Look at me. Please."

"Why should I?" I say sharply. "It's just a stupid song."

I watch his shadow cross its arms. "You know, some gratitude would be lovely. I created that 'stupid' song for a girl I hoped would treasure it. But, according to her ignorance, it holds a degree of prominence that she declines to apprecia—"

"For God's sake, why can't you just forget—?"

"_Dammit_, Sarah!" a surge of anger rises in his voice. "Look at me, _please_!"

Although I'm taken aback by his frustration, I refuse to turn. There's no way I'm about to obey Jareth, whether it's a demand or a request. Determined to stand my ground, I glare at the street lamp across the parking lot and contemplate the smartest strategy to flee to freedom.

But that's when I feel two hands clamp around my shoulders. Then, before I can jerk away, Jareth's reeling me around and planting me in place, directly facing him. His movement's so agile and stern that I hardly have time to flinch.

Astonished, my eyes meet Jareth's in the dim gloom. His expression's pinched, and agitation presents itself visibly in his widened eyes. His fingers compress into my shoulders and I feel his hold tighten with each spoken word.

"Like everything else," he says through gritted teeth, "I thought you had erased it—that you'd enforced yourself to disdain the memory. That's what you've always done, correct?" he yanks me in closer. "_Obliterate_ the gifts I have to offer?"

Even though I'm startled, I hide my shock and I glare icily.

"An awful hallucination is anything but a gift."

His stares at me. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I _hate_ every word of that song!" I thrust him away and stagger backwards, nearly teetering off the curb's edge. Jareth pulls away, takes a heavy gulp of breath and scrunches his crimson hair in his fists, holding it back from his forehead. He doesn't look at me in the night, but instead squeezes his eyes shut. Within the blackness, it looks like he's about to lose it.

"That song—it's _terrible_!" I scream at him. "The thought of it makes me sick, and you wouldn't believe how difficult it was for me to stand on that stage and sing it to you! How am I supposed to feel about a—a form of torture that reminds me of—of _you_? About a time when I was once trapped inside my head—that my imagination was controlling whatever happened to my _brother_? His life, Mr. _Jones_, depended on whether or not I had the strength to withstand your messed-up labyrinth!"

In the distance behind him, I spot Jamie and Ceylon. They stroll from the school's front doors and down towards where we stand, accessing the looks of the situation. Though it's dark and their faces appear blurry, I can plainly see their expressions' uncertainty, like the two of them are unsure if they should pivot the opposite direction. Their strides slow and Jamie's hand flies up against Ceylon's chest.

Mindful of my best friend's attention, my voice slips into a hissed whisper. "That stupid bubble was never a _gift_, or a _dream_, or whatever you want to call it. It was a _cage_ and it nearly destroyed everything that matters to me. And all you can say is that, because you created the damn thing, that I should _appreciate_ it? How am I supposed to feel about something like that?"

I digest the pain in Jareth's eyes—the pain that I've never seen before—and instantly back off. He looks more troubled than I've ever seen him, and this observation feels strangely upsetting; how could I, with just a tiny hint of the truth, hurt him this much? He looks as though I've viciously stabbed him in the gut, like his organs are pouring onto the concrete and it's all my fault.

I shakily sigh; today needs to end. I'd rather stare at my bedroom's depressing ceiling all night then the expression on Jareth's face.

"But the worst part," I take a deep breath and step forward, "is how unforgettable it is; your voice—the words that you had sung—how could I ever erase that? No matter how traumatizing it was, it's a part of me, Jareth, like it's a part of you." I try to smile, but the venture immediately dies; there's nothing to smile about. "Of course I remember."

He doesn't try to speak—to add a comment before my friends' interruption. Instead, Jamie and Ceylon appear by our sides and Jareth, seemingly oblivious, just stares at me. He hardly blinks an eye at their arrival.

"Good evening, Mr. Jones," Jamie chirps, beaming up at him. At the sound of her voice, Jareth offers her a side glance. But I notice the distressed glint in his eyes and I realize how, although he looks at Jamie, he's not really here. He's somewhere else entirely.

The happy glow to Jamie's entrance promptly diminishes, and the four of us are left standing there in the chilly air. We wait for Ceylon's greeting—any sign of a recovery—but there's an empty muteness and we quickly accept his insolence; he glares at his shoes and ignores Jareth. In an effort to rescue the moment, Jamie dives into a small-talk endeavor.

"So, did we kick Vick's ass tonight or _what_—?"

"Goodnight, Mr. Jones."

I latch my hands onto Jamie and Ceylon's elbows and steer them the opposite direction, any direction away from Jareth. The two of them throw me startled looks, confused by the dismissal. Jamie opens her mouth to complain, but, after my warning glance, she instantly silences herself.

I secretly pray Jareth will keep quiet, that he'll allow me to escape without a word. That pained look in his eyes shouldn't have to be my problem, and if I disappear then maybe it won't matter. This sort of behaviour doesn't belong to the Goblin King. It never has. It's not Jareth, so why should I have to deal with it? God, what's _wrong_ with him?

But, just to my dismay, I hear his choked response sound from behind us, more anguished than I could ever expect.

"Goodnight, Ms. Williams."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Helplessly Hoping I

_Wordlessly watching,_

_He waits by the window …_

_And wonders,_

_At the empty place inside …_

"_Let's Dance_!"

David Bowie's voice ruptures through the speakers. The bass's rhythm pounds into my chest like a second heartbeat, riveting and profound.

"_Put on your red shoes and dance the blues…_

_Let's dance_!"

With my hairbrush wrapped in my palm, I dance across the carpet in a series of spinning twirls. My hair lifts from my shoulders and soars around me, corresponding with the spirals.

"_To the sound they're playing on the radio…_"

My room's a disaster. Scraps of clothing and school papers liter the floor and my desk's cluttered with all sorts of useless junk, ranging from forgotten novels to jewelry. Three different mugs of stale coffee sit on top my bedside table and layers of dust have collected in the air. The last time I made my bed is a mystery, so the blankets are strewn over the mattress like a sloppy mountain. I switched on my lamp a little while ago but you can't even tell because there's a pillow case on top of it.

I land in front of my mirror and, giving myself a cheesy wink, my waist sways from side to side. I bring the hairbrush—which is my wannabe microphone—into action as I pretend to sing. I like to imagine the way Bowie would have done it, with a proud chin and noble stance, and swing my body the way he would've. Because no one's watching, I throw in a pointing finger while I'm at it.

"_Let's swing!_

_While colour lights up your face…_

_Let's sway!_

_Sway through the crowd to an empty space_!"

Inspecting the mirror's reflection, I see a girl in baggy plaid shorts and a black T-shirt. There's an image of Ziggy Stardust's face on the front, accompanied by a lightning bolt and provocative grin. As usual, her hair hangs alongside her face like a dark, concealing curtain. She's pale and bags droop from under her eyes, but I pretend not to notice that part. It doesn't really matter, anyways. It's not worth dwelling on.

But what does matter is how boring I look. Why doesn't Jamie ever point this out? My chest is a flat board and my lips mine as well be non-existent. Karen keeps throwing hints that I should trim my eyebrows, but, every time I see my aunt, she urges me to keep them thick; she insists that full eyebrows are tasteful. _It's all about the eyebrow game_, she once told me, _forgot about boobs. Eyebrows are the key._

Yet, my eyebrows don't change the fact that my style is embarrassingly plain, though. You'd think Jamie would say something, bearing in mind she proclaims anything that borders her thought process. I'm just this boring, ugly duckling next to Jamie's striking resemblance to a swan—a swan with eccentric lace-up boots and leathery paints. It's not fair.

I spin away from the mirror and leap onto my bed, gesturing to random objects passionately. My bedroom is the stage, glamourized with spotlights and adored by a sea of hollering spectators. I hear the powerful drum beat complemented by a grueling guitar riff. Sound bounces off the stadium's walls. As my body bends and swings, so do theirs. Cameras flash and voices squeal—

_Knock knock knock…_

My back snaps upright. Frolicking for the carpet, the door nudges open just as I hit the floor. "Good evening, Sarah!"

My dad's face peeks out from behind the door. He must have caught me nearly slamming into the dresser because he gives me this look of curious suspicion. The pounding music, too, is challenging to miss.

"Hi."

"Were you just…" He eyes the stereo, "Dancing?"

"Um…No. I wasn't."

I dig through my pile of bed sheets for the remote. Then I point it at the stereo and jab my finger on the 'off' button. Nothing happens, though, so I remember the batteries died yesterday and my foot slams into the machine. David Bowie's voice comes to an instantaneous halt.

"Right, yes, of course." He steps around the door and closes it with his back.

He has his glasses on, which tells me he was probably just reading the newspaper or battling a round of Sudoku. He also hasn't changed from his crisp office suit, although the striped tie is partially untied. Karen adores it when my dad wears his office suit around the house, mostly because it reminds her of the handsome business man she fell in love with—Never mind the fact that she was his secretary. Barf.

At the sight of me hiding the hairbrush behind my back, my dad begins to quietly laugh. I can't help but join him; between the two of us, I was definitely dancing.

"I thought I'd just peek in for a visit," he chuckles, "see how you're doing."

We both know what he means by that and I wait for the awkward silence. Sure and enough, it hits. There's been plenty enough of them between my dad and I for a while now—these weird, unnatural silences. And I hate every one of them; they're just a reminder of his pointless worrying.

"How's school? Anything new? I heard you tried out for—what was it—the musical?"

"Uh, yeah! The musical! Auditions were yesterday."

"And how were those?"

Despised every second. I wanted to barf onstage but Jamie would've slaughtered me.

"Really good! Tones of fun!"

"That's so great, I'm glad to hear."

My dad smiles and robotically shifts his weight onto his other leg. Beyond his generous eyes and smile, there's loads and loads of distress; I wish he wouldn't over-analyse everything I do. He's just concerned, I get that, but I'm not the same kid I was when I returned from the Labyrinth. With time, I got better and, at this point, I'm perfectly normal. Things are different. Why can't he choose to believe that?

My dad's probing his mind for something to say, I can tell. I watch him as he adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. He hasn't treated me the same. He's the only one who hasn't moved on, and that's his worrying's fault.

"How about that A+ on your English quiz the other day, huh?"

"Oh yeah…that."

There was a surprise quiz Friday on Wuthering Heights and this ultimately sucked because I can't recall one time that I've bothered to open the book. I knew right off the bat that I was going to fail it and, sure and enough, I flunked every question; where there was space to explain my understanding and answer, I doodled. I kept it simple with moons, stars and flowers; there was no point in even trying to figure out the theses statements: 'ferocity of an inflexible love' and the 'instability of social class.'

But, just as the bell was about to ring, Jareth handed out the marked quizzes and nearly knocked me off my chair; there was a clean line of checkmarks beside every doodled answer. I also noticed his silly contributions to my artwork, which included sparkles around my moons and a cloud of hearts around my name. The enormous 'A+' was also impossible to miss, as he had it presented on the sheet's front in thick sharpie. I got one-hundred percent. I failed the quiz, yet he gave me one-hundred percent.

I thought that was interesting. And sort of annoying.

All in all, I've been too busy—to tired—to muster the brain power to read. Studying hasn't come easy for me, either, which probably explains why I'm starting off the year with straight C's. Whenever I'm in class, it's like there's this gigantic wall between me and the realm of application. It's been a challenge to keep up with my grades and I've begun to notice a trend: every time autumn nears and my nightmares resurface, my grades drop.

So, bearing this in mind, it's easy to draw a well-educated thesis of my own: Jareth's to blame. He planted those nightmares in my head, thus he's to blame for my educational struggle. It's not my fault his stupid Labyrinth won't leave me alone.

I only wish this was explainable to my parents.

I'm getting the highest mark in my English class, though, if that counts for anything. But it's not like I spend valuable time reviewing notes or asking questions. Gee, I wonder how that ninety-eight percent got there...I wonder who could possibly be the mastermind behind that joke.

"It was so easy," I flatly say.

"Oh, Sarah, you make me proud. It's a nice change to see you doing so well—bumping up your grades and getting involved." My dad smiles at me again and I try my best to smile back. But I hate lying. Not just because I'm horrible at it, but because he doesn't deserve it. "You know, I read somewhere that extra activities are the perfect solution to getting back, well, you know…on your feet."

At this, I don't respond. I have no idea what to say to something like that. There's nothing wrong with me. I've been 'back on my feet' for a while now. Autumn throws things off a little, sure, but that's nothing. There's no reason for him to pity me like that.

"So, uh, dinner's almost ready. We'll send Toby up when it's time to eat." He hesitates. "I'll let you get back to, um, whatever you were up to here. Dancing and whatnot…"

"_Dad_."

He lets out a laugh and closes the door behind him. "I'm sorry! Don't let me discourage you! Dancing's good," his voice is muffled on the other side, "you should dance more. Dancing's fun."

I should dance more? Seriously?

When I hear his footsteps down the hall, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the floor. He thinks it'll help me, like dancing can cure someone's problems or something. But I don't need the advice; when he says things like that, it makes me feel like there are problems, like he's speaking realistically. But he's not. Because I'm fine.

I sit there like that for a little while longer. That conversation drained the appeal of dancing and now it feels extremely lame to switch on Bowie and sing into a hairbrush.

I can still remember, although I prefer to tell myself that I don't, the six months after the Labyrinth. I caved inwards into that damn comatose shell. I lost so many friends—not real friends, but the ones who will wave distractedly instead of stopping to chat; Jamie and Ceylon were the only two who stuck around. My appetite no longer existed because, with one thought of the probing hands inside the Labyrinth hole, I became sick. I stopped going to the library. I couldn't sleep. Talking at the dinner table wasn't even an option—the chance of slipping and confessing the Labyrinth felt too probable. I blocked my family out and succumbed to my own world of dark, unexplainable secrets.

Nothing really felt like I had returned to reality—my _home_—and the nightmares were stern to keep it that way. I hate that period of time. Above all the nightmares I've seen, by far, that was the worse.

And I wish my dad would forget about all of it because, if he won't, then I won't.

As I sit on my bed and stare at the floor, something shifts in the corner of my eye—something small—and it looks as though it's perched on top my windowsill. Turning to my left, I see it: an owl.

It stares at me with wide, curious eyes, like the looks of me are as fascinating as the looks of it. It doesn't move. It's motionless like a majestic figurine from across my room, and something tells me it's been here, watching me, for quite some time. There's a full moon out tonight, something I also failed to notice, and it looms above the owl in an ethereal radiance. Moonlight splashes through the window and all around the owl's frame, sharpening its silhouette. It's like something you'd see in a film, only this is my bedroom. Which is really creepy.

My pulse begins to race as I leap onto my feet and order myself to remain calm. There's an owl in my bedroom. I live in _New Jersey_, yet there's an _owl_ in my _bedroom_. How is this possible? Am I being pranked? Why is it _here_?

Clueless as to what to do, I resort to an act of intimidation and take slow, meticulous steps towards the window. With each step that I take, I'm hoping the visitor will regret its expedition and fly away. But it doesn't; the owl just cocks its head, blinks twice and watches me. I can't even consider it frightened because there's not a trace of uncertainty within its gigantic eyes. The creature just sits there, as though it's done this before and has been waiting too long to do it again.

What the hell?

But, now that I'm a foot away from the owl, I'm taken aback by its beauty. Long white feathers curve around its neck and down its chest. The claws are so fierce that they look like razors. Designs of dark specks are scattered throughout its body, like handcrafted ink. The owl's head is a golden hue and its face is bordered with a heart shaped ring. Although the owl's wings are nestled by its sides, I have a good feeling they're strong and massive by how densely the feathers are gathered. This unexpected visitor is so stunning that, momentarily, I forget that its origin is unknown and that its company is abnormal.

But, above everything else, I digest how the owl doesn't look as curious as I'd thought it had. Alternatively, I see, well, _sadness_. I'm aware that this doesn't make sense and I can't declare what an animal is feeling, but the glimmer in the owl's eyes, now that I stand so close, holds signs of grief and, well, _pain_, like it's responsible for a regretful mistake.

Lifting my hand cautiously, its eyes follow my fingers as they migrate to the owl's neck. And when I stroke the smooth feathers, I'm surprised to watch it perk up and eagerly press its furry head against my palm. A giggle escapes my lips and, in return, it lets out a pleasant laughter of its own:

"_Whoo_! _Whoo_!"

This only encourages me to giggle more; it's so cute. While we stare at one and another, the owl offers me a single wink. I gasp and fumble back a step, dumbfounded by the gesture.

Then my bedroom door swings open.

"Dinna! It's dinnatime, Sarah!"

I spin on my heels and find little Toby in the doorway. His plaid onesie is too big for his pudgy body and he holds a spoon in his hand, waving it around his head with child-like impatience. I watch a glob of mashed potatoes slap his forehead.

"Hickery dickery dock, come for dinna _now_!"

Alarmed, I whip my head back around to the windowsill. I'm searching for excuses—any reasonable explanation for the owl's presence. It's already imaginable: Toby screaming at the top of his lungs and fumbling down the stairs. Dad and Karen will think I'm crazy. They'll put me on medication and tell me to—I don't know—_dance_ all the time.

But it's gone. I find myself staring at an open window, with the luminous moon and the curtains rustling. I blink; the owl flew away.

"Hickery dickery dock, Sarah's too _swoe_!"

With a hard jerk, I slam the window shut and obstruct the chilly night's breeze. My hands tremble as I fiddle with the latch.

"You know, Toe, I do love you, but you are terrible at rhymes."

"Hickery Dickery dock, I'm _hungray_!"

I slip my housecoat on and accompany him in the doorway. He grins up at me and tugs at my robe, babbling on about mashed potatoes. But before I close the door and follow him down the hall, I offer the windowsill one last glance.

I can still imagine the owl sitting there in the moon's luminosity, with the sorrow flickering in its eyes. It must have been mourning—there's no way I read those eyes wrong. And as I close the door and release my grip on the handle, I absently wonder if the sight of the owl was a hallucination's trick—I could be going insane.

Not that I agree with my dad, I mean


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 11: 505

_Oh, when you look at me like that, my darling, what did you expect?_

_I'd probably still adore you with your hands around my neck._

_Or, I did last time I checked…_

We're herded like cattle into the theatre on our second audition day, and I honestly would prefer to be anywhere else. The stage is too bright for my liking and I'm surrounded by clusters of different cliques, all minding their own business. However, I've managed to convince myself that I'm not just doing this for me, but for Jamie and Ceylon, as well. Although it's becoming harder to convince myself this when Ceylon's wasting all his "cattle" time chatting with Victoria and her gang of idiots. Whatever, it's his loss, right?

On the plus side, I have Jamie, who for once in her life isn't talking. Instead of excitedly making guesses as to which production we're doing, she just sits on the stage floor, absent-mindedly picking at her yellow, combat boots. Her mind is obviously occupied on other things, but I can't stand another moment of this boredom.

"Ground control to Major Tom," I say, waving a hand in front of her face. "Your circuit's dead, there's something wrong."

If this had been any other day she would've quoted the rest of the classic back to me, but instead her eyes loiter on Ceylon, who is on the other side of the stage. He's poised next to Victoria, encircled by a fresh batch of theatre idiots. Since her squad didn't audition with her Saturday night, she's rounded them up for today. Jamie and I observe her whisper something to Ceylon, followed by him throwing his back in a stupid-looking laughter attack.

"Y'know," she says, finally looking my way, "it's weird that he likes her so much. How could you hang around someone when they're so mean?"

I shrug. "I don't know, but we're used to it, James. Ceylon's a bit of a popularity whore, is all."

"I know," she grumbles, sitting up to cross her legs. "I just hate being the second choice—especially to her." She nudges her head in Victoria's direction; I can't help but nod in agreement.

Sometimes I wish that Ceylon would see the error of his ways and ditch them completely, but sometimes I feel like our friendship is only a sheet of thin ice. After all, it's probably getting annoying trying to balance his "cool" friends with the ones he'd "known forever"—not so valuably gifted with their social statuses. I wonder what he says when his friends ask why he bothers with us. I wonder if his answer is, "We've just known each other for a long time."

And it's obviously been getting to Jamie too, you can see it in the glances she throws their direction. We haven't said it aloud yet, but we're wondering when our "half-time" with him will become no time at all. When will the hangouts turn into half-assed conversations in the classrooms? When will those turn into quick hellos in the hallways? When will those turn into absolute silence?

"That song," says Jamie suddenly, her eyes on mine, "the one you sang Saturday night, it was really beautiful."

"Thank you," I reply. Of course, she's already told me this, but something in her voice hints that she's more serious now.

"It's just, you said someone wrote it for you, but the melody sounds really familiar." She hums it lowly to make a point, stretching her arms distractedly. "I've heard it before. You used to have this gorgeous music box, the one with the girl in the ballroom dress on it. You used to spin the handle and the melody would play."

For a brief moment I'm confused, unsure of what she's talking about, but I can suddenly picture the music box. I'd thrown it somewhere into the back of my closet years ago, along with the other bags of trash that would remind me of the Labyrinth. Karen refused to let me throw any of the memorabilia out, claiming that I would want to look at it later as a golden reminder of my childhood. I couldn't tell her that I had a panic attack every time I opened my closet doors.

"So, when you say someone wrote it for you, what do you mean by that?"

Lying to Jamie is an impossible feat, and for a second I consider confessing everything. I consider telling her what broke me two years ago, Mr. Jones' true identity, and about how every nightmare I have pulls me closer to that place I've tried so hard to escape. I consider dragging her into this mess, making her a witness to Jareth's crimes. But what can she do? Would she walk up to him and yell at him for a bit? Would she even believe me?

So, because of the consideration, I don't tell her the truth; I settle for a direct lie to her face.

"I just added words to the melody," I say, hoping it sounds more like a confession than a story I just formulated together. "I was embarrassed on stage so I just said someone had written it for me. Stupid, I know."

Her eyes scan my face for any hint that I may be hiding something, and, truthfully, I am hiding a lot. However, my story is more convincing than I thought, and instead of calling me out she simply says, "No, not stupid. Just strange."

Hopefully I've eluded her curiosity, because I can't stand the idea of lying to her any more than I have to. It's strange that when we both look at Mr. Jones we see two completely different men. To her he's the eccentric red-head, but every time I have the misfortune of looking his way I see the white-haired Goblin King. I saw the man who had stolen my brother and tried to strip me of my freedom. A new hairstyle and wardrobe isn't going to change who he is to me.

As the noise in the theatre dies down, Ms. Casey enters from the wings, carrying a pile of what looks to be scripts. Ceylon must've taken this moment as a queue to join us, because suddenly he is now on the ground beside me. He gives us a wink, but Jamie is too lost in her own head to acknowledge it.

"I demand silence from my little performers!" she announces with a smile. No matter how obnoxious we are as students we give it to her, eagerly anticipating our instructions for the evening. I'm somewhat relieved to see that Mr. Jones hasn't joined her and that I won't have to suffer his antagonism for the time being. That being said, his absence just makes me think he's scheming.

"Now," she says, hugging the scripts to her chest. She looks as if she's ready to burst, the excitement practically oozing out of every pore. "We've decided to take the creative route with this year's production. We will not be doing West Side Story or Chicago or any of those typical high-school productions." I can see some disappointment in the faces of my peers, some obviously dead set on the two musicals she had just deemed 'typical.' "However, we have decided to do an adaption of a very interesting novel, written by an anonymous author. Mr. Jones has been writing the score, and I hope you can give it a chance, as it has never been done on stage before."

With that, she begins handing out scripts, and I watch as different students flip through the pages curiously. "It's quite underground, but I would like to know how many of you have heard of the book _Labyrinth_?"

I should never have tried out for this stupid play.

Both Ceylon and Jamie's hands shoot up in the air, and, reluctantly, I raise mine, not sure how to react to what I just heard. I wonder whether it would be a better idea to laugh or to wring Jareth's neck.

Ms. Casey smiles when she gets to us, handing us each a script. "I'd never even heard of it until two weeks ago!" she says to us, regarding our raised hands as if they impress her. "It's such an odd tale, I wish I'd discovered it sooner."

"Well, we know about it through Sarah," offers Ceylon, nudging me with his elbow. "She's been obsessed with it since she was nine."

"Not anymore," I grumble, refusing to meet Ms. Casey's expectant gaze.

"Well, she woke up one day and thought it was too childish," says Jamie, draping her arm around me. "What was that line you used to say? "For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great!""

I should've known he'd do something like this. The moment I saw him at the auditions should've been the moment I'd left.

"That's wonderful!" Ms. Casey says, her voice dripping with cheer. I smile and nod, hoping that she doesn't find the murder in my eyes.

When she passes us Jamie and Ceylon both nudge me, excitedly chattering about the play-to-be.

"How are they going to make it work?" says Jamie suddenly, her mouth forming into an enthusiastic grin. "I mean, with all the weird characters? It's been a while, but I remember there being some outright crazy moments."

"What do you think, Sar?" Ceylon asks, finally noticing the look of disdain on my face. "You used to love this book! Why aren't you more excited?"

"I just think it's stupid," I say, tossing the script to the side. "It's a ridiculous story about some stupid girl who gets caught up with some egotistical creep who also doubles as a baby thief."

"Yeah, but your entire life revolved around this story," pointed Jamie. "You convinced your step-mom to name your half-brother after the baby in the book."

"It's just dumb," I counter. "It means nothing to me now."

"Nothing? _Nothing_? Nothing, _tra-la-la_?"

At that moment we turn to see Mr. Jones standing behind us, wiry glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. I'm completely convinced he doesn't need them to see, and is only acting the idiot as a way to make himself look more like a teacher. I imagine them snapping in half from the impact of my fist.

Both Ceylon and I turn from him immediately, not interested in what he has to say. Well, I'm very interested, but afraid that it'll only make me scream at him. Maybe even hit him.

Jamie stands when she sees him, script in hand. "Mr. Jones!" she exclaims, ignoring us for the time being. "I figured out what the deal is with your eyes."

"Oh," I hear him say. "And what have you concluded?"

"Anisocoria," she states. "It's a condition where one pupil is more dilated than the other. I looked it up the day you gave us a detention, but I didn't remember until now."

Mr. Jones seems at a loss for words, and Ceylon uses this moment of silence to stand and pull me up with him. When I look at Jareth's face he seems flattered by Jamie's dedication to his physical attributes, but I look away to avoid my rage taking over. "Well," he says, "that is quite interesting."

A circle begins to form centre stage and we begin to walk to it. But, I let myself fall back a bit, so that I may fall in line with Jareth. It might not be the smartest move, but I feel the need to say something.

"How could you do this?" I hiss, being disregarded temporarily by the people surrounding. "You very well know there are much more interesting stories than Labyrinth!"

"Now that's hurtful," he says with a pout, glancing shyly at me through his lenses. "That's our story you're talking about, Sarah."

"I am so close to strangling you."

"Love, if you want we could find a quiet place for you to do it," he murmurs, leaning closer to me. "I'm sure I'd enjoy it more without all these prying eyes."

My face flushes red, from embarrassment or anger, I don't know, but I was sure to lose it if I let him say anything else. "You're out of line, Mr. Jones."

He lets out an annoyed sigh. "It's _Jareth_."

I don't respond, instead I catch up to my friends, who are patiently waiting for Ms. Casey to say something. I watch as Mr. Jones takes his place by her side. He looks so smug, so happy with himself, that it makes me sick. He's going to make me relive the worst time of my life, and he doesn't show an inkling of remorse.

"We will be splitting you up into partners," says Ms Casey. "You will be practicing the dialogue between the characters Jareth and Sarah in the final scene. I know, spoilers! But we find this scene to be the most intense; it's where the protagonist finally stands up to her villain of a love interest and claims her power. We will then have you present it in front of both Mr. Jones and I."

I was lucky enough to get Ceylon for a partner, and if anything was going to make Jareth angry, it would be seeing the both of us recreate a moment he had grown to loathe. I doubt Ms. Casey had consulted Mr. Jones when it came to this scene in particular because I swear that a moment of shock and worry erupts on his face. I find myself smiling to myself; if Jareth wanted to play this game then we'll play it. But I would have just as many opportunities to hurt him as he does me.

I know this scene well, so I hardly have to look at the lines, yet I find that my eyes are glued to the page. Ceylon gives me a wink before we start our practice, and I notice Mr. Jones glaring at his feet in the distance.

"Sarah, beware," quotes Ceylon, lifting his chin in a regal manor. I can't help but giggle at the expression on his face, or how well he captures Jareth's brashness. "I have been generous up until now, but I can be cruel."

"Generous," I say, and for a moment I'm taken aback by how the word escapes my mouth. There's anger in it, mixed with disbelief. I had been calm the first time I'd said these words to Jareth, but maybe that wasn't the right approach. Maybe, I needed to get angry and use Ceylon as my punching bag. I straighten up before delivering the next line, with enough outrage to draw the attention of both Ms. Casey and Mr. Jones. "What have you done that's generous?"

"Everything!" roars Ceylon. I'm impressed by how his emotion matches mine, and how he's using my energy to fuel his own. "Everything you have wanted I have done! You asked that the child be taken; I took him. You cowered before me; I was frightening." He takes a step closer and deftly strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. Though this definitely never happened, I roll with it, staring daggers as he speaks. "I have reordered time," he says softly, cupping my chin in his hand. "I have turned the world upside-down, and I have done it all for you!" He steps back, swinging his arms out wide as a gesture to the entirety of the stage. "I am exhausted from living up to your expectations of me. Isn't that generous?"

My eyes find Mr. Jones' a ways behind Ceylon. However, I refuse to read into his expression and turn my attention back to my acting partner. "Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered," I quote, stepping forward, "I have fought my way to the goblin city. For my will is as strong as yours and my-"

"Stop!" interrupts Ceylon. Suddenly, he rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, and begins to curl his bicep. "Look at what I'm offering you! Your dreams."

I can't help but burst out laughing, especially as Ceylon keeps his serious expression as he flexes. But, after a moment, his face cracks into a smile as he tries to add lines. "Touch them, Sarah! These muscles are all for you."

We begin to attract the attention of some of the surrounding students, some of which are now laughing at our display. Ceylon takes this as an opportunity to flex the other arm, and I playfully swat at them. "Put those away, this isn't the gun show," I tease. But he refuses to lower them, now beginning to pose like Hercules.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Of course, Mr. Jones does not find this as funny as we do, although his sudden appearance makes me laugh even harder. This just adds to his pinched expression, which adds to my feelings of triumph.

"Just having some fun, Mr. Jones," says Ceylon, lowering his arms. "No harm in that."

"Except," Mr. Jones fumes, "when it proves as a distraction to your hard working peers. Maybe, it's because you're so used to having things handed to you, Mr. Bridge, but I see that everyone else here is working hard."

"I work for what I want," snaps Ceylon, clenching his fists at his sides. "You don't know me, you don't know anything about me."

"I recognize poor work ethic when-"

"Stop it!" I demand, stepping between the two. I press a hand to Ceylon's chest as a way to tell him to fall back. It isn't my strength that makes him halt, but that he gets the message. I turn to Jareth, crossing my arms over my chest. "I was messing around too, Mr. Jones. Is there anything you want to say to me?"

He says nothing and looks down at me in disbelief, as if defending Ceylon were injuring him. And to add insult to injury, Ceylon puts an arm around me protectively, drawing me back from Mr. Jones slightly.

Whatever Jareth was going to say after that, we didn't get to hear, because Ms. Casey had come up behind him. She manages to look at all three of us oddly, as if she had just walked in on some intimate scene. However, she doesn't address it and says instead, "If it'll make a better use of time, we can split the two of you up."

Neither myself nor Ceylon object to this, although I can tell he's annoyed. Slowly, he slips his arm from my shoulders and pairs himself with Ms. Casey, who, weirdly enough, has volunteered to act as a substitute for me. This leaves me with Mr. Jones, who I know, needs no script.

"Sarah, beware," he says, script rolled up at his side. The way he looks at me now makes me want to turn and walk in the opposite direction. I'd seen this look before, and I didn't care to re-enact what had transpired between us. "I have been generous up until now, but I can be cruel."

"I know," I say suddenly. Whatever is on the script is now abandoned; I'm sick of walking the lines he draws for me. "You can be very cruel."

He opens his mouth as if to tell me that I forgot my line, but he realizes that I haven't. It's etched into my mind as if someone had branded it behind my eyelids. He blinks a few times, taking a moment to look at the script. "Everything," he mumbles, flipping through pages to find where his words are. "Everything that you wanted I have done. You asked that the child be taken, I took him. You cowered before me, I -"

"_Was_ frightening," I finish, raising my brows at his dumbfounded expression. "I'm not afraid of you anymore."

From the corner of my eye I can see some kids turn to stare, wondering why I was going so far off script. Of the people I see, Ceylon is among them, no longer paying attention to Ms. Casey's dramatic antics. Mr. Jones looks around, unsure about the attention we are drawing. "I have reordered time. I have turned the world upside-down, and I have done it all for you!" he says. He gives me a look that tells me to back down, that whatever I have to say can wait.

"Must be exhausting," I say. There is no way I'm budging, no way I'm going to revert back to the conversation skills of the old Sarah Williams. He chose the battlefield, but I draw my own weapons. "It's a wonder you're still trying."

At this point I see Jamie watching, but instead of looking confused she's smirking. Maybe she thinks that what I'm doing is some clever ploy to get under his skin, some form of payback for Ceylon. Whatever she's thinking, Ceylon's thinking the opposite, because his expression is one of discomfort under the blaring lights of the stage.

Jareth says nothing, but his pissed expression tells me I've embarrassed him. Good.

"Ms. Casey," I call, catching her attention. She turns, seemingly oblivious to what had just been said. "I think I'd like to practice with Ceylon again, Mr. Jones and I don't have much chemistry."

Whatever was on Ceylon's face before, it is now gone, matching the smirk that Jamie adorns. Ms. Casey only nods, letting him take Jareth's place. For a moment, he does not move, only fixing me with a scornful glare. I tuck my hair behind my ears and smile, watching him fall away from the high pedestal he had put himself on.

He has no power over me.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: You Won't See Me

_I don't know why you_

_Should want to hide,_

_But I can't get through_

_My hands are tied…_

What I've never understood about Karen and my dad is why they chose Monday night to be date night. After all, it's the beginning of the week, known to be the most painful, and a school night for both Toby and me. Yet, every Monday night they are off to dine at a fancy restaurant and possibly catch a film at the cinema. Karen says it keeps their "young love alive and exciting." I just tell her I don't care and that she should close the door when she leaves my room.

And oddly enough, they still think they need to explain to me the rules about Toby's sleeping schedule and diet, as if I haven't been living with the kid since he came into this world. As much as I explain this to them, they only pretend to get the message, until the cycle begins the next Monday. I try not to be too hard on them; I understand that they work hard and love us despite our outrageous flaws. But they're so ridiculously annoying, that when they're out of the house I finally feel like I can breathe.

"No cookies after seven," says Karen, applying an extra dab of blush to each cheek. "Oh, and make sure he's tucked in by eight, and read him a story. I think he wants you to sing him the 'Hickory Dickory' whatever song."

I nod, even though I'm only half listening.

"And don't let him watch any shows that take place underwater because he-"

"Wets the bed every time; I know." I can't help but notice how stressed out she looks, even though nothing ever goes wrong when I'm watching Toby. Well, except for that one time where he got kidnapped and I came face to face with my stalker and soon-to-be English teacher, but she didn't have to know about that.

She smiles at me through the mirror, though I can still see the worry in her eyes. "I know you know, Sarah. You're a good girl."

I shrug, as if the title doesn't really apply. "Any rules you want to lay down for me, Karen?"

She turns away from the mirror for a second, to spray more of her flowery perfume. She puts a hand to my cheek, giving me her famous look of "motherly concern." "Watch something funny and find something to laugh about," she says. "You have a beautiful laugh ."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and tell her I will, even though I already have Kill Bill in the DVD player. Of course, Karen won't approve, but an action movie seems good right about now. I'm pretty sure I deserve it.

As they go to get into the car my dad gives me a farewell wave, shouting brief instructions about Toby's bed time rituals. I close the door before he can finish.

For the first time in a while, I feel like I can finally breathe, and I take a moment to do so. Leaning against the front door I exhale deeply, grateful for a minute without smothering attention or stress-brought headaches. I'd bested the Goblin King for today, and now I would get to relax in my kingdom.

I can hear Toby pattering around in the kitchen, knocking over stools and banging pots. The plan is simple: get some macaroni in him and send him off to bed. Maybe some cookies.

"Sawah!" he squeals. I hear a crash of what must be copper against linoleum, and find my way to the kitchen. A mess of pans greets me, and I see Toby in the corner of the room, smiling sheepishly.

"I hope you were scaring away monsters," I say, beginning to clean his mess. "Because if you were, you did a good job of it. They won't be hanging around; not with all this racket."

"I saw a gobwin," he says, pointing to the corner behind me. I don't even bother to look this time, knowing that there's nothing there.

"What would a goblin be doing here?"

"It was spying for the king," Toby says, flopping down on the floor in front of his mess. I freeze, and suddenly find myself turning. There's nothing there, of course, but the chills running up and down my spine tell me otherwise. "I wanted to give it a hug but it was bitey."

"Did it bite you, Toby?" I ask. The playfulness has left my voice, and I take his hands in mine. I'm not sure if a goblin bite would do anything to him, but I'm not going to take a chance if one had put its sharp little teeth into my baby brother.

"Naw," says Toby, wiggling about in his footie pyjamas. "My pots and pans scared it away. Bye bye, gobwin."

My eyes find the corner again, and I wonder if Jareth would be so crass as to send one of his minions into my home. And if I know one thing, it's that Toby may have an active imagination, but he doesn't lie. If he truly saw a goblin in our house then there would be hell to pay.

As the hours pass, I do my normal Monday night routine of feeding Toby, letting him watch a cartoon, and tucking him into bed. However, every chance I get, I check the closets and darkened corners; I even go so far as to checking every inch of my dad and Karen's room. I'm relieved about finding no goblin activity, but disgusted by reasons I am not even going to dwell on.

I am ready to turn out the lights to Toby's bedroom when he lets out a gasp. I follow his gaze to the hallway, but nothing is there. "What's wrong, Toe?" I ask. I try to put on the brave stance, just for him, but my skin begins to prickle slightly.

"New king," he murmurs, eyes beginning to close. "Not the same one fwom befow."

Yes, he's got red hair and goes by Mr. Jones now.

I do one last check before leaving the room, angrily heading for the kitchen.

"Alright," I hiss, not loud enough for Toby to hear. "Jareth, stop sneaking around. Tell whatever you sent to spy on us to leave."

I am met with silence.

"You better hope I'm only talking to myself here."

There is silence for only a few moments more, but quickly followed by the pitter patter of hurried foot steps. Without delay, I follow the sound, running into the living room. Cowering behind the couch I see it, hands thrown pathetically over its head.

"You horrible creature!"

I try to keep my voice down for Toby's sake, but it carries into a rather angry hiss. I swipe my hand against its head, knocking it down onto its back. I'm ready to strike it again when I see its face, eyes full of fear.

"Sarah, please!" it cries, throwing chubby hands out to protect itself. I freeze, my breath caught in my throat. Slowly, I lower myself, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing.

"Hoggle?" I breathe. I hadn't seen him since the night I'd conquered the Labyrinth, and it wasn't like I hadn't tried to call on him. His neglect to answer was one of the reasons I used to think of myself as some sort of crazy person.

"Sarah," he says, trying to stand up. Only he doesn't get to, because my arms are around him in a matter of seconds, holding him close to me. Never did I think I was going to see his wrinkly little face again, and for the time being he might as well be a handsome prince. He was a breath of fresh air compared to the bitter oxygen that was the Goblin King.

"Jareth sent you," I whisper. This has to be the only good thing about his return, but the idea of it seems odd. I pull myself away, holding the creature at arms length. "Wait, Jareth sent you to spy? Why would he send you?"

"He didn't send me," the goblin answers gruffly, trying to straighten out its now wrinkled garments.

"So, you're just here to visit? I suppose that's alright. How's Ludo? How's Sir Didymus? I was starting to think I would never get to see-"

"Sarah," he interrupts, stepping away from my open arms. "Jareth didn't send me, and I'm not here to visit."

I give him a confused look, now starting to recognize the worry in his face. Silently, I stand, towering over him like a giant. "Then why are you here?"

He says nothing, but only points a single finger toward the kitchen. I follow the direction and get a view of the island and fridge, but nothing more.

"There's nothing the-"

When I turn back he's gone, as well as any trace of him ever being here. I look around the living room, but there's no doubt about it: he's gone.

Jareth has a lot to answer for.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Eyes on Fire

_I won't soothe your pain,_

_I won't ease your strain,_

_You'll be waiting in vain,_

_I got nothing for you to gain…_

* * *

"I mean an owl—like a _legitimate_. _Owl_."

Jamie squints at her reflection in the locker's mirror. Like she does every morning, she applies the eyeliner with a subtle flick of her wrist.

"Did it have a letter from Hogwarts?"

I blink. "Um, no. It didn't. But—"

"Did it keep you company when the Dursley's were being asses?"

"This isn't a joke, Jamie." I release a mouthful of air and rub my eyes lethargically. Fuzzy dots develop in the blackness. "In all seriousness, I met an owl Saturday night. In my bedroom."

"Was it white as snow?"

"No."

"Did you name it Hedwig?"

"No."

She expertly twirls the makeup pencil between her fingers.

"Did it sacrifice its life to save you from the Death Eaters—?"

"Oh my God, _No_."

I let my head fall against the neighbour's locker. Jamie doesn't believe me. My best friend—one of those people who's indebted to listen and nod their head in mindless agreement—doesn't believe me. Since I declared Saturday night's mystery, she hasn't showed me the slightest smidge of seriousness. It's beginning to throw me off, not that my three hours of sleep wasn't already doing the job.

She's so accustomed to my glares of annoyance that she's hardly discouraged when I fire her my finest, most demeaning glare. Her reply is a look of innocence and why-can't-we-love-Harry-Potter-together look. I hate that look.

It's at that moment when a basketball slams into the space between us, the huge _boom_ noise ricocheting off the lockers and sending me squealing like a mouse. Jamie doesn't shudder a muscle as she throws a dissatisfied glance at Ceylon.

"Sarah had a grotesque date with an owl last night."

Ceylon scoops the basketball up and, with skillful ease, spins it on his pinky.

"I saw her text, but then I figured Toby hijacked her phone." He turns to me. "He _did_ hijack your phone, right?"

"No, no he did not. Could you guys just shut up and listen?"

"Okay, fine." Ceylon steadies the ball. "Talk."

I shift awkwardly while Jamie and Ceylon target their scrutiny onto the withdrawn member of our trio. Their faces hold patience and expectancy, like I should feel obliged to impress them with my mildly embarrassing secret. I contemplate, for only a second, knocking the ball from his hands and frolicking down the hall.

"Well, since you asked so _politely_, I will. On Saturday night, I found an owl in my bedroom. It was perched on my windowsill and it didn't do anything—just watched me. But I could've sworn it looked sad, you know? Like the poor thing—"

"Oh fuck, I can't do this," Ceylon's serious face breaks and he chuckles. Then he's shaking his head and giving the ball a sharp bounce. "Since when was Sar on acid? I thought that area of expertise belonged to Mr. Jones."

"Well," Jamie taps her finger against her chin, "_obviously_, he's sharing it with her."

"That would make sense."

"Let's report him."

Irritated, I stomp my foot. "Stop it, I'm _not_ on acid!"

We watch Ceylon pinch his face together and roll his eyes upward. Then he flops his wrists in aimless directions, mimicking my words.

"_Stop it, I'm not on acid_!"

"The owl is real, dammit!"

"_The owl is real, dammit_!"

The embarrassment strikes me in a malicious blow. Now that any confidence has leaked into extinction, I'm seriously debating sulking all day. My shoulders cave inwards as I complain to my friends.

"I can't believe you guys are acting like this. I'm telling the truth yet you're making me feel extremely uncomfortable."

Ceylon shoots the basketball at me and, although I catch it, the impact meets my chest like a steady punch. It nearly knocks the air from my lungs and I'm left marginally stumbling for balance.

"What did you expect, Williams? You had a romantic date with an _owl_ and it was in your _bedroom_. That's the farthest you've let _anyone_ go!"

Before I have the chance to process this, Jamie's reeling around and digging her tiny knee into Ceylon's crotch. He buckles inwards instantly and enunciates a combination of laughter and searing, unfathomable pain.

"You know, in ancient Greek mythology," Jamie peacefully speaks over his cries, "owls are associated with magic, security and wisdom."

From his hunched position, Ceylon wheezes another remark.

"Huh? Say that again, dork?"

She spins around once more and, this time, halts her knee just below his midsection. Ceylon cringes fearfully at the sight of it. I let out a laugh, sincerely enjoying his pain.

"It's called reading," she retorts, "try it out some time."

I drop the basketball and it bounces back to Ceylon's feet, as though spiritually summoned by its master. While he continues to hunch over and puff air, I encourage Jamie to tell me more.

"Well," she begins, "in ancient Greek mythology, the Goddess of Wisdom favoured the owl. So the crow was banished and, in its place, she honoured the owl as the great protector. This meant that they could accompany Greek armies into war—kind of a big deal. And, on top of that …" Jamie inclines forward and attaches her sparkling eyes to mine. "They had a knack for watching over their earnest, most treasured loved ones."

Ceylon performs an abhorrent snort that could've lasted five whole seconds. I, on the other hand, take her words into deep consideration.

"Are you suggesting that Saturday night's owl could've been _protecting_ me, like I'm its _loved _one?"

She shrugs her shoulders, like she has her own freaky bird friend and it's nothing fabulous.

"In the grand scheme of things, yeah. Pretty much." She raises a brow. "And owls aren't _its_, Sarah. I'm betting it was a male."

"What makes you think that?"

"You mentioned earlier the colour of its back—light feathers, right? Some white showing?"

I nod my head slowly. Jamie's rich education on owls is getting a little weird.

"Um, yeah. No dark colours, only light."

"Then it was a male." Jamie reaches forward and pats my shoulder. "Congratulations, you now have a magical owl companion."

Still caved inwards (Jamie must've slammed him _hard_), Ceylon glimpses up at us, wincing in trifling agony. With one hand, he manages to scoop the basketball up and toss it at me.

"There's no such thing as magic, Sar. I say that's a load of bullshi—"

Before I can hug the ball against my chest, a hand darts before me and swipes it away.

"Did somebody say '_magic'_?"

Jareth smirks at my friends with the basketball balanced in his palm. He looks pleased with his coordination.

Just as Ceylon scrambles into an upright position and mutters a flat "_no_," Jamie chirps "_yeah_!"

"What an exquisite approach to begin the day," he muses. "As a matter of fact, magic is an attribute I specialize in."

"Wow, _really_?" Ceylon fakes an overly-exaggerated falsetto, just like what Jamie does with the Vicky squad. "Because we were thinking you specialized in something along the lines of aci—"

Jamie raises her knee again and he instantaneously shuts up.

"Can I have the ball back?" Ceylon grumbles.

"It's all yours."

Jareth launches the ball at Ceylon with startling force. Although the athlete catches it, the surprise is painted visibly on his face; Jareth isn't nearly as cooperative with Ceylon as he is with Jamie.

"Do tell me of this discussion's origin," Jareth purrs, "magic is a delight, if I don't say so myself."

"Um," I pull at Jamie's jacket, "we were actually just leaving—"

Just to my dismay, Jamie nudges my fingers off and says, "Sarah met an owl last night. We think it's her new companion."

Well then.

I cross my arms and plaster a stubborn expression on; I have no interest in participating in this conversation. I'd rather not hear Jareth's opinion, thank you very much.

Our teacher looks perplexed by this piece of confession but, weirdly enough, he doesn't alter his attention onto me, like any other day. Instead, he pours it onto Jamie with a gratified smile.

"That statement sounds a tad preposterous, wouldn't you agree?"

"I think it's cool, actually. Sarah needs a little help in the 'friend' department, if you catch my drift."

"I don't believe it," he laughs. "An owl's visit is as rare as the visit of a Gobli—"

"Goblins aren't real," I quietly declare. "Owls are, though. I know what I saw."

For the first time since he showed up, Jareth turns to me and I'm faced with a foreboding frown. His blue eyes congeal into ice as they loiter, delivering a message as clear as day: goblins are very much real, you silly _idiot_.

"Yes," he sourly replies, "but, on the contrary, you're induced in the notion that you know many things, aren't you?"

His sourness has thwarted my voice; I have nothing to say. What the hell was _that_?

His scary demeanor promptly vanishes and transitions back into that pleasant smile, gifted solely to Jamie. It's practically enveloped in ribbon and crowned with a bow; just like that, my face has been slammed into a metaphorical brick.

"Jamie, I wanted to phrase you for your immaculate perception yesterday. Anisocoria is the answer to my eyes, mostly certainly, but I never foresaw a student's ability to unravel such a secret. You are quite a skillful girl—astonishing, to be definite."

Jamie eyebrows raise at this, taken off guard and a little confused.

"Well, uh, thanks."

It only takes her a brief moment to recuperate, though, before she's clearing her throat and gesturing to an imaginary audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to thank the academy. And also Jonah Hill, who has always been there for me."

Jareth blinks twice and cocks his head, unsure of what game she's playing. I watch him make an effort to excuse himself.

"I'm afraid I must be leaving, now—"

"I would also like to thank Google for making those owl websites possible—"

"I will see you in class, Jamie."

With a polite nod in her direction, he whirls around and glides down the hallway, one foot sashaying after the other with purpose and tenacity. I pray he'll slip on a banana peel.

Jamie hasn't noticed his exit because she's still executing her bows, wiping fake tears and gushing melodramatically. Ceylon and I don't bother joining in because, for the time being, the two of us are occupied staring after our teacher.

"He just pretended like we don't exist," Ceylon observes. "And, I don't know if you noticed, but he shot daggers into your soul."

"He tried knocking you out with a basketball."

"_Daggers_, Williams. _Daggers_."

I teeter onto my heels, struggling to keep my view of Jareth. In the distance, he's merging into the packs of students, slipping through skin and backpacks. Only a fragment of my attention is with Ceylon because the majority of it is fastened to Jareth.

"Mmmm," I passively reply.

A moment passes and, as baffling as it is, I think Jareth may have sensed my eyes, like his goblin intellect can predict if I'm watching; just before he turns a corner, Jareth glimpses over his shoulder and favours me with the bitterest, most spiteful glare I've ever seen.

'Daggers' sounds awfully accurate.

* * *

I wait until after class to confront Jareth.

The bell chimes at exactly nine-thirty. Kids burst from their seats like coiled springs and the morning's stillness is obliterated. They flood out the door in disordered torrents, thrashing against each other's shoulders and shouting over the buzz. Amidst the commotion, I'm the only one who remains.

"I have a few questions about an assignment," I had told Jamie and Ceylon. My eyes wouldn't meet theirs as I organized my papers. They were already categorized, technically, but I needed something to aimlessly toy with—to make me look distracted. "It's nothing. I won't take very long."

I sit in my seat, stare at the chalkboard and twiddle with my fingers. Although my friends had shrugged their shoulders and turned unnoticeably to the door, the flicker in Jamie's eyes was impossible to miss. It was small but ablaze, thirsty for the secret that smouldered behind my hiding. She exited with Ceylon, but her mind is churning.

When the last stray students trickle out the door and the classroom is empty, I stand up and position myself in front of Jareth's desk. The location is direct and confrontational.

"What's your problem?" I demand.

For the past half hour, Jareth's been feverishly scribbling on a sheet of paper. His back's arched while he scratches his pen across the page, riveted in concentration. There's that familiar crinkle wedged between his eyebrows.

During class today, he had instructed us to simply "read some literature."

"But what about reviewing for our novel study," Jamie piped, "Wuthering Heights? Isn't there a unit test coming up?"

Jareth provided her a look that said, "Do I look like I care?" Then he slid into his chair, grabbed a sheet of paper, the nearest pen, and began to scribble. And that was that.

I hadn't thought much of his dismissive behaviour at the time but, now that I stand before him and request his attention, I'm growing a little concerned; never have I needed to request for his attention—to confront him and ask what's going on. Something is off about Jareth today, this is obvious.

As they have been since the first day of school, it's easy to predict how his eyes will tear from the paper and melt into mine. He'll gear his curiosity onto me, equipping it with the fieriest, most intense warmth. But he doesn't. Instead, Jareth ignores my demand, like my presence is worthless to him. He continues to scribble on the paper, common decency far from his interests. This stings a little.

Jareth's voice is a flat streak of boredom.

"Whatever could you mean?"

"Don't play dumb. I saw the way you looked at me this morning and, heck, I should've skipped class because you wouldn't have noticed."

"_Cared_," he corrects, "I wouldn't have _cared_. Perceiving is mandatory, but caring is a matter of preferred decision."

Um.

A minute is wasted while I propose a long, measured stare. The silence is unremarkable, though, because his scribbling doesn't waver. He won't even look at me, and the result of his disinterest is a feeling of rash stupidity; I'm the girl standing in front of her teacher's desk, awaiting for the return of his affection. I'm the girl who's worried when his flirtations are absent, and who ponders why they're missing. I'm _that_ girl.

Finally, I crack.

"Okay, fine, be like that," I force a snort, "whatever, I don't care."

Like it's the easiest thing in the world, Jareth's boredom remains. As a result, I want to snatch his pen and hurl it across the room. But I chicken-out of this mission and, on the seventeenth second of silence, crack a little more; I'm now exposing a raged, cavernous hole.

"Tell me what I've done wrong. _Please_."

I broke a barrier because I'm awarded with a reaction; he sighs irritably.

"Well, if it _must_ disquiet you, your commands have made it blatantly clear to treat you as a plain, inconsequential student." His fingers constrict around the pen. "I'm following your orders."

Jareth's pen must've ran out because, without peeling his eyes from the sheet, he tosses it in the trash and blindly reaches for another.

"Stop it, then," I snap. "It doesn't feel right."

His hand freezes against the paper, as though he's prudently absorbing my response.

"Does Sarah Williams not relish blissfully when I pretend she means nothing to me?"

His words shower over me in an arctic gush, unexpectedly crude. I blink rapidly and hurl my muteness into the battlefield, the feeblest weapon available.

"My goodness," he murmurs, "this is remarkable."

"Quit putting words into my mouth, will you? I just don't like it when you treat me disrespectfully. I think we both know that I deserve more than that."

Just to my dismay, his eyes rip from the paper and drill into mine. My arms prickle; they burst with sweltering aggravation.

"Oh, _do_ you? You deserve _more_, you say? Pardon my _objection_, Ms. Williams, but you haven't preserved a scrap of _respect_ for me since I arrived."

My stomach tightens; he's never treated me like this before. Never has Jareth addressed me with such a malicious tone—with such glacially livid eyes. I hate to admit it, but I think I'm losing the battle.

My protest is gentler than I hoped.

"You're the one who chose to be here. It's not my fault."

The flames rupture within his eyes.

"But _you're_ the one mutating it into a _nightmare_. That, whether you like it or not, is _your_ fault."

The pen snaps between Jareth's fingers. Black ink dribbles from his palm and onto the desk, staining scattered papers. This includes the sheet he'd been scribbling on.

Glowering at the mess, Jareth spews a chain of curses. He then closes his eyes and rub his temples, distracted by agitation. I embrace the opportunity to snag the mysterious paper and examine it for myself.

My breath is stolen because, rather than a mess of illegible lines, it's a sketch of a girl. She's sitting at a desk and gazing forward, a dash of vigilance peeking from her eyes. She has one hand resting on her notebook and the other tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. The pen's strokes are strident and coarse, yet the image is wholly captured; careful attention has been paid to the fullness of her eyebrows and her lips' flattering shape. The girl means something to the artist—this is easy to perceive. She's important and, well, _loved_.

But after comprehending the angle it was drawn from and that she's wearing my favourite sneakers, my heart drops; she's me.

Before I can further engross it, the sketch glides from my hands and migrates across his desk. Jareth's extended fingers beckon the paper's return, like there's an invisible string attached to it. It slips into his hand with impeccable control, and I'm reminded of his unfair advantage: magic.

Considering his tightened lips, uncomfortable posture and flushed cheeks, the sketch wasn't for my eyes. Jareth avoids assembling eye contact and examines his artwork, his complexion crumpled with uncertainty and humiliation. It shocks me, however, once Jareth scrunches it into a ball and chucks it in the trash.

"Why did you—"

"It was foolish."

I roll my eyes. "Actually, no. It wasn't. You're just embarrassed. I thought it was beauti—"

"I am not arguing about this," he blatantly proclaims. "The picture is foolish. I don't know what had gotten over me but I should not have drawn it." The colour in his cheeks deepen. "That's the end of it."

"But—"

"Please, Sarah."

Though he's attempting to guard his emotions, I can hear the shame dishevelled in his words. Jareth's urging me to drop it so, for some reason, I do.

With a gracious swerve of his wrist, the ink dissolves from the desk, leaving the papers clean and untouched. Watching him, I announce last night's visitor—not that I haven't been announcing weird visitors enough today.

"I saw Hoggle last night."

A spark flashes in his eyes, like a dash of concern. But it vanishes as promptly as it appeared.

"What?"

"I found him in my house. He was there and then, well…" I trail off. "He wasn't. You personally sent him, didn't you?"

"No. I did not send him." Jareth adjusts his glasses and performs a half-hearted attempt to organize the desk. "Why would I do that?"

"God, Jareth I don't know. To spy on me?" I throw my arms in the air. "To gain a detailed report of my underwear drawer?"

He pierces me with a glare.

"You are being absurd; that would defy your orders—to treat you with significance. Besides," he fidgets with the unmarked quizzes. "It's in my interests to avoid the pulverization of your tenacious complexity."

I had something to say but, suddenly, I don't. Whatever it was has been pilfered from my throat, a move of injustice burglary. While I stare at his shielded face, we suffer the expanse of a lengthy moment.

"It was a joke," I quietly say.

"I am not laughing."

"Well, if you didn't send him then who did? You're the Goblin King, for heaven's sake, nobody else has that authority other than _you_."

"Give it up, Sarah. I have no association with Hoggle's appearance."

"But it doesn't make any _sense_—"

Annoyed, he grabs a handful of papers. "And why should I give a damn?"

"You're _you_! That's why!"

Somebody's quiz wrinkles within his fist. "Well, since you have familiarized yourself with the script so _well_, why don't you figure it out yourself?"

Bingo.

"Wow, Jareth. _Wow_."

From behind his desk, Jareth surveys my pleased smile with a glower of suspicion. Excitement seizes me from head to toe.

"Why are you looking at me like that? I know _nothing_."

Riveted in delight, I flatten my palms on his desk's front space and lean towards him. His eyes widen at the gesture, probably shocked by our mounting proximity.

"This is about last night, isn't it? You're pissed off at me for steering off the script and putting you on the spot!"

Jareth's features darken. A dense haze surfaces before his glacial eyes.

"I am not as much _pissed_ as I am _hurt_."

Through my smile, I mock his words from our conversation's start, accent and all.

"_Whatever could you mean_?"

With a deepening grimace, the paper rips in his hand. "You were being difficult," he sneers, "as you _usually_ are."

"_I'm_ being difficult? You're the one pouting behind the fake teaching degree, Mr. _Jones_!"

His entire body has strains. "You are so ignorant, Sarah. My behaviour is far beyond your understanding."

I lie on the spot.

"Don't know, don't care."

And that's when I strike a nerve.

Jareth's hands smash against his desk with a stern thud. A layer of papers lift from the desk in a synchronized flow, but it wasn't from the impact of his hands; it was the impact of his magic. Before the papers settle, Jareth returns my confrontation by inclining forward and minimizing the space between us. His eyes are on fire. They explode with a gulf of vicious flames—thrashing and ferocious.

"I am the _villain_," he hisses, "without end, I am the repellent emblem of our past that you refuse to forgive. In everything that I symbolize, you _scoff_ and _sneer_, wrapped up in your egotistic defenses and selfish fortress. Despite the lengths I've suffered to paint new history, it all means _nothing_ because I am the unforgiveable, _condemned_ villain of my _goddamn labyrinth_."

My heart skips a beat, faltering within my chest like a perforated target.

"I have burdened you. I have provoked your suffering and caused you pain, I _know_ this. But I have paid for it Sarah, don't you see? I have paid for it in your heartless mockery and cruel allegations—in the manner in which you _look_ at me." His tone is jeering, overwrought with accumulated fury. "Our past has trapped me within an endless debt—an eternal curse that I, because you are _heartless_ and _cruel_, cannot escape."

To seemingly gasp for air, Jareth tears himself away from me. Though, in doing so, he staggers into the chair. In a burst of fury, I watch his foot viciously kick it astray, which prompts two more pens to snap on top the desk. I nearly jolt out of my skin as the ink splashes onto the papers; the energy between us intensely stressed.

I expect Jareth to swear and clean it up once more, but he doesn't. More specifically, I don't think he _can_; he appears weakened, like the use of magic drew the strength from his body. There's something in the way he presses himself against the desk for reinforcement—in the way he gasps heavily for breath that suggests his fatigue. His cheek are glowing with heat and his hands tremble. As though there's no breath left, he speaks in an exhausted gasp.

"But I think of that night in the parking lot and how you poured your pain to me—the inexcusable pain that I dealt, and realize that I am, without question, the villain." He echoes this statement but with a spineless, more sorrowful whisper. "_I am the villain_."

There must be a bullet lodged in my chest because I can't breathe. It's sinking deeper and deeper, the wound deteriorating with each breath.

"Jareth," I stammer, "I…I am so—"

"You are dismissed."

The bullet has infinitely drowned.

"But—but I can't just _leave_—"

"_You are dismissed_."

Before I can protest once more, I'm submerged in an unseen surge of air. An invisible force lurches me backwards and I find myself stumbling towards the door, wrestling to regain my stability.

I am anything but reluctant to dash out of the classroom—to free myself of his muddling rage. Though I never touched the door, it slams shut from behind me, the clash echoing down the hallway and off the walls of my skull. The impact is jarring and slightly nauseating—an official barricade stabilized between the two of us.

Although I knew he couldn't hear, I smooth my palm against the door and whisper what Jareth deserves—what he has deserved for a very long time.

"I'm sorry."

And, with that, I am dismissed.


End file.
